Barkley: Shut Up and Jam, Gaiden: Slamfiction
by Hoopz Bergen
Summary: It's the year 2053 in the post-Cyberpocalypse. Steve Nash is on the run from the B-Ball Removal Department, hoping to find refuge. Can he do what it takes to defeat notorious terrorist organization B.L.O.O.D.M.O.S.E.S.?
1. Act One: The Starting Whistle Blows

Tales of Game's Presents Barkley, Shut Up and Jam: Gaiden, Chapter 1 of the Hoopz Barkley SaGa: Slamfiction

**Barkley: Shut Up and Jam, Gaiden: The Steve Nash Khronicles **

Warning: This Story is Canon

My name is Steve Nash. In the year of 2041 New York City was completely destroyed. Millions perished. Survivors fell into poverty and had to witness the remains of their former home fall into the hands of twisted leaders. Some came to call it Neo New York. I call it a crumbling reminder of a once-great city, where the strong bully the weak for what few Neo-Shekels they've got. My Name is Steve Nash. And this is My Story...

Act One: The Starting Whistle Blows

Steve Nash was no stranger to sprinting. As a former point-guard for countless NBA teams, a quick jaunt down the court was nothing more than a walk in the park. But this time he wasn't running to get back to his zone-defensive position, or even to receive a long pass that he would seamlessly transform into a game-winning layup. He was running from Wilt Chamberlain, the newly-minted head of the B-Ball Removal Department.

Things had changed a lot in the past few weeks, almost as much as they had after the Great B-Ball purge, or "B-Ballnacht". Nash cringed as the thought went through his mind. B-Ballnacht. The world-wide movement to rid the planet of all things B-Ball. It was a direct result of the Chaos Dunk his old colleague, Charles Barkley, had performed in 2041, twelve and a half years ago. The Chaos Dunk had killed millions; including Nash's own dear wife, Alejandra Amarilla.

Steve Nash ducked into a side alley and skidded expertly to a stop. He bent down behind a dumpster to catch his breath. The alley smelled of lost dreams and desperation, but Steve knew it hadn't always been like this. Neo New York used to be one of the finest metropoles on Earth. But years of neglect and mismanagement had left it in a state that was but a fraction of what it once was.

He held his breath as the sound of heavy boots thundered past the alley entrance. As he waited in silence, he noticed a large metallic cylinder resting against a grimy brick wall under a fire escape. He recognized the debris immediately. It was a piece of Necron 5, a galactic prison ship that had formerly orbited around Earth. But now bits of it lay scattered all over the planet's surface. Rumor had it that Charles Barkley himself had gone up and destroyed it, but he had never returned.

Nash waited for the footsteps to recede and pushed the thoughts of the past into the back of his mind. He got up and dusted off his Nikes. If they caught him wearing those they would skin him alive, he thought. But in truth, he was in trouble, Nikes or not.

He picked himself up off the ground. He had to keep moving, or his spondylolisthesis would act up again, and his muscles would severely cramp. But where would he run to? He couldn't go back to his rundown one-room apartment, since that was where the B-Ball Removal Dept. had found him earlier today. He couldn't go to the police, they were completely in Chamberlain's pocket. But maybe he could go to his brother's or sister's...

...No, no he couldn't. They were dead.

All dead.

Steve Nash sunk back down onto the greasy cobbles and buried his head in his hands. He couldn't let it get to him. He had to be strong. For himself, for the people he had lost. For the kids of the Steve Nash Foundation in British Columbia. He let a sob escape from his throat. He had tried to lay low, tried not to get involved. But ever since the events of the Space Jam, everything had just gotten so complicated, so... effed up. Living in the post-cyberpocalypse was as close as a man could get being in hell without dying first.

"Hey there." A gruff voice rumbled in darkness. Steve Nash opened his eyes and jerked into a defensive position.

"I swear, I haven't touched a B-Ball in years." Nash pleaded. "Just leave me be!"

"Ha, I ain't from the B-Ball Removal Department, man." A couple of newspapers ruffled as the owner of the voice sorted through the contents of the dumpster.

"I don't want any trouble, but I will not hesitate to slam and jam." Nash back away from the man. He certainly didn't look like he was from the BBRD. He was dressed in rags and a stained grey hat sat on his wildly-bearded head.

The head turned to look at him. The man smiled a toothy grin and laughed. "Looks like you got enough trouble as it is, boy." His gloved hand held up a half-eaten drumstick. "Chicken?"

Nash swallowed down a wave of disgust. "No-no thanks."

"You really can't be too picky about what you gonna eat for dinner here on the streets or Neo New York, boy." The man took a large bite of the meat. He chewed it and closed his eyes, obviously enjoying it immensely. Then his eyes popped open and refocused on Nash. "You look familiar, do you know that?"

"I have one of those faces." Nash started edging back toward the entrance of the alley. "Well, it was nice meeting you."

"I know you! You're Stevie Nash!" The hobo jumped off his little stool and turned to face Nash head on. He walked with a pronounced stoop and was barley 5 feet tall. "Stevie Nash! Why I never! One of the best white boys the game of B-Ball has ever seen! I thought you were dead, boy! I thought yous was all dead!"

"Shhh! Don't mention B-Ball around here! It's too dangerous. If the B-Ball Removal Department were to hear-"

"They ran past here long ago. They should be halfway to the Church of Clispaeth by now, my boy." He scratched his beard. "So Mr. Nash, what brings you to my humble home?"

"You live here? In this...filth?" Nash tried to hide is disgust, but was unable to.

"Absolutely!" The man waddled over to the large chunk of metal that was formerly part of the bulwark of Necron 5. He put his weight against it and grunted as it shifted, revealing a little hole in the brick wall. "You're welcome to come in and check it out."

"No thanks. I appreciate your hospitality but-" Nash paused. The sound of footsteps was getting louder. Nash shuddered as he heard the crunch of glass. "They're back!" He froze.

"In here!" The bearded hobo motioned to the hole. "Hurry, they'll be here soon!" He ducked inside and disappeared into the darkness.

Nash darted after him and slid into the gap between the bricks. He squinted in the dark and saw the hobo amble quickly back over to the entrance. The little man grabbed the back of the space prison debris.

"Give me a hand here, boy!"

Nash gripped a corner of the metal. He could feel his muscles straining, but with their combined effort the debris eked back into place, sealing off the entryway.

"That was close. They almost-" Nash was cut off by the hobo, who had clasped a hand over his mouth.

A voice from outside reverberated into the tunnel. "Dammit! I could swear I heard something coming from this direction." It was the booming voice that was commanded by Wilt "The Stilt" Chamberlain, new head of the B-Ball Removal Dept. He had replaced the old leader, Michael Jordan ever since his mysterious disappearance.

"I think we've lost him, sir."

"That may be. But rest assured, we will not stop looking for him."

"What should we do now, sir?"

There was a pause, and then Chamberlain's booming voice came back. "Regroup at headquarters. I've got to check on the progress of our new project anyways. Hopefully it will be near completion, and then nothing will stand in our way."

"Do you mean the project code-named KA-J?"

"Silence!" Chamberlain boomed angrily. "You're not to mention it by any name, understand?"

"S-sorry sir. I will not make that mistake again, sir."

"Good. Now let's head back to HQ and we can plan phase 2."

"Yes sir!"

The footsteps faded again, and Steve Nash turned back to the hobo. "Do you have any idea what they were talking about?"

"That sounded less like the B-Ball Removal Department talking and more like..." the man paused.

"Like what?"

"...BLOODMOSES." The hobo turned away.

Nash was shocked. "But...but I thought they were said to have been destroyed when Barkley took out Necron 5!"

"That's what I thought too...but all this talk of secret projects and KA-J just reeks of BLOODMOSES' fingerprints." The man began to waddle down a side tunnel that branched out from the little room they had been sitting in.

"You're pretty knowledgeable for a street-walker."

The man turned around and grinned through his massive black beard. "You have no idea Stephen. You have no idea." He continued down the dark tunnel and Nash stumbled after him.

"Where are you going?"

"You mean, where are _we _going. And call me Goose."

"Where are we going, uh, Goose?"

"We're going," The hobo paused again, and Nash just about rammed into him. "to see an old friend."


	2. Act Two: The Toss of the Ball

**Barkley, Shut Up and Jam: Gaiden, The Steve Nash Khronicles **

Warning: This Story is Canon

Act Two: The Toss of the Ball

Renowned point-guard Steve Nash followed Goose the knowledgeable hobo down the dark and forgotten tunnels of Neo New York. The air was getting cooler and damper, and the tunnels continued to slope downwards. Pipes were starting to become visible between the bricks, and the stench of sewage was gradually becoming more pervasive.

"Who are you taking me to see?" Steve Nash asked as he ducked underneath a jet of steam escaping from an old pipe.

Goose didn't reply at first. Eventually he said "Do you enjoy life, Steve?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Nash questioned.

"It has to do with everything, my boy."

Steve pondered this as they continued walking. "You know, I can't say that I really do enjoy life, Goose. At least not since..."

"The great B-Ball purge?"

Steve was silent. "Y...yeah. The purge. We used to live in a world where B-Ball was accepted and even encouraged. Now it's looked upon as something to hate, to despise. What kind of a world is that?"

Goose nodded. "These are hard times, especially for former B-Ballers."

"Don't I know it," Nash continued. "I'd been living in Neo New York in secrecy, lying low for years, not causing any trouble. The next thing you know, the B-Ball Removal Department is bursting in, demanding that I come with them. I had to run. I had no choice. I'm...I'm good at running."

"But aren't you getting tired of running? Don't you want to stand up and fight for what's well and good, my boy?" Goose raised his voice, "Don't you want to restore B-Ball to it's former glory?"

Nash paused. He stopped in his tracks, and Goose turned around to face him. "Well?"

"Of course I do," Nash responded. "But I'm just one man, and I'm but shadow of my old self. I can't slam with the best, let alone even jam with the rest."

Goose put a greasy hand on Steve's shoulder, and looked up into his eyes. "Don't ever stop slamming and jamming. You were one of the best. You still could be. Don't ever forget that." He pulled his hand away and continued to amble down the tunnel.

"..." said Steve Nash.

"We're here, boy." Goose said as they rounded a corner.

Nash gazed at the sights before him. They were at the entrance of large, cavernous room with a high, vaulted ceiling. Large pipes pumped waste into the chasms below, which were bridged by thin metal catwalks. Nash saw what he assumed to be houses carved into the brick walls. Strange-looking creatures walked around, going about their daily lives.

Goose looked at Nash and grinned. "Welcome to Cesspool X."

. . .

The man longingly held the jersey in his hands. He ran his palm over the large, white number 36 on the back. He inhaled and closed his eyes. He exhaled and opened his eyes. He sat down in his rocking chair, which always faced the door, and began to rock.

He heard two pairs of footsteps approaching, and smiled. Goose had done good. He had been afraid that they wouldn't be able to find anyone left to listen to their cause, but maybe there was hope after all...

The hobo and a small white man entered the room. The white man instantly went whiter when he saw the man in the rocking chair, who stood up.

"You-you're-" Nash mumbled, awestruck.

"Hello Stephen." The man holding the jersey held out his right hand. "It's nice to meet you. My name is Meadow Lemon. But you can call me Meadowlark."

. . .

Nash fell to his knees. It couldn't be, he thought to himself. It just couldn't be... "You're Reverend Meadow Lemon!" He stammered. "A Harlem Globetrotter and one of the best B-Ballers this Earth has ever seen!"

Goose grinned. "This is who I wanted you to meet. He is indeed Meadow 'Meadowlark' Lemon, a Globetrotter so good that he was one of the only five to have his number retired. Number 36."

Meadowlark beamed at Nash. His tall frame was made even more impressive by the perfectly spherical afro mounted on his head. "Stand up, we have much to discuss."

"But what are you doing here?" Nash got to his feet again. "Why are you here in Cesspool X?"

"Goose, if you will please excuse us..." Meadowlark said, and Goose nodded cheerfully, disappearing back outside. Meadowlark offered a chair to Steve Nash, who took it gratefully. Meadowlark went over to his closet, got a hanger, and slipped his Jersey onto it carefully. He put it in and shut the door.

"I've been in hiding, much like you have been," He sat down in his rocking chair. "Thank Clispaeth I was able to find you before Chamberlain did. That could have spelled disaster for us all."

"What do you mean, Meadowlark?"

"We're reaching a crisis point. Ever since Wilt Chamberlain took over the B-Ball Removal Department, they've been cracking down on Ballers even harder than before. Why, I've heard that half of the former Nuggets were put to death just last week."

"No! Not Jimmy Darden!" Nash sat back in his chair, stunned.

"'Fraid so. If something isn't done soon, B-Ball as we know it will become extinct. And so will we, in the process. For players like us are nothing without a sport to play." Meadowlark lowered his voice. "Sorry I had to bring you down here, but BLOODMOSES has ears everywhere."

"BLOODMOSES? That's the second time they've been mentioned! Surely they were destroyed when Barkley-"

"Hah, Barkley tried, Clispaeth rest his soul. But BLOODMOSES runs deep. Necron 5 was important to them, that's for sure, but have you ever considered that there may be 4 other Nercons we haven't even heard of?"

"NO!"

"Yes, it's a thought that keeps me up at night. And, of course, the B-Ball Removal Department is just a front for BlOODMOSES itself. They use it to take out as many Ballers as they can, since we are the only things separating BLOODMOSES from completely taking over the world."

"Have you heard of the KA-J project?" Nash asked.

Meadowlark stopped smiling his sad smile, and smiled a worried one. "Where did you hear about that?"

"In the alley, I overheard Chamberlain mentioning that the KA-J project was nearing completion."

"Clispaeth help us, this is worse that I thought." Meadowlark got up and walked over the closet. "We may have to act sooner than I anticipated."

"But what can we do?" Nash also stood up. "We don't have nearly enough manpower to take out BLOODMOSES or Chamberlain!"

"There may be something..." Meadowlark turned back to his closet and opened it up.

"What are you thinking?"

"We are just two men, it's true. It's too small a number, not even enough for a B-Ball team."

"We'd need 5 people for a B-Ball team."

"That's correct Stephen, I'm glad you still remember the old ways."

Nash looked down at his Nikes. "It's the only thing that keeps me going." He cleared his throat and looked up. "What was your plan?"

Meadowlark opened up the closet and pointed to his jersey. There were four empty coat hangers beside it. "I wasn't the only Harlem Globetrotter to retire a number."

"Of course not, there were five of you. Five that played the game so well they became instant legends." Nash paused to think. "There was you, Meadowlark Lemon... and..." He struggled to remember. It was so long ago. And yet, the names of the greats sat on the tip of his tongue. Slowly they came back to him. "And number 20, Marques Haynes, number 50, Reece Tatum, and number 22, Fred Neal. We used to call him... 'Curly'..."

"You do remember," Meadowlark smiled. "I need your help Stephen. If we can reunite the 5 greatest Harlem Globetrotters of all time, we may just have a ghost of a chance to take down BLOODMOSES once and for all."

Nash looked back down at the ground. "Why do you need me? I'm just a has-been. I've been running for so long I've even forgotten how to dribble..."

"Listen to me Stephen," Meadowlark took his jersey off the hanger and slipped it on over his plain white tee. "You were one of the best point-guards off all time. And you're a white boy! That's an incredible gift. Don't sell yourself short. I need you to help me find these players and round them up. I won't be able to do it alone."

"I don't know if I can-"

"Then don't do it for me. Do it for your wife and your siblings, and all the kids of the Steve Nash Foundation in British Columbia. Do it for them, so they can live in a world without fear that the final buzzer is just around the corner."

Nash looked back at Meadowlark. "I'll...I'll need a jersey."

Meadowlark broke into a huge grin. "Of course. I don't have a jersey for you, but here's the next best thing." He dug a hand into his afro and pulled out a sharpie. "Turn around."

Nash rotated so his back was facing the old Globetrotter. Meadowlark uncapped the sharpie and began to write on the back of Nash's grey tee: "Nash. Lucky number 13."

"That feels...right." Nash said when the work was done.

"I knew you'd come around." Meadowlark grinned and stuffed the sharpie back into his perfect hair.

"Where do we begin to look for the others?" Nash asked.

Meadowlark reached back into his hair and brought out an old piece of parchment. "A few years ago, I was running from Jordan and the B-Ball Removal Department. I wound up here, in Cesspool X, but I discovered that I was not alone. Do you know who used to live in this house, Stephen?"

"Who?"

"Abe Saperstein."

"The founder of the Harlem Globetrotters!"

"That's right, Stephen. And right before he died, he gave me a list of the known locations of the remaining four players. That's the list I have in my hand. I made Abe a promise that day, a promise that I would reunite them all and bring an end to this tyranny."

"So where are they?"

"First we'll go find Marques Haynes. He's supposedly living in the remains of the old Olympic basketball stadium."

"That's a good start," Nash said.

"But it won't all be so easy, Stephen. When you were listing their names, you forgot to mention the fifth retired number."

"Did I?" Nash thought back. "But there's you, and Haynes, and Tatum, and 'Curly'..." Nash paused. " You're right. I just remembered who the fifth one was. He was number 13. Same as me."

"Now do you see the problem?" Meadowlark wasn't smiling anymore.

"Of course...The fifth player is..."

Nash paused for effect.

"Wilt Chamberlain."

. . .

Goose the knowledgeable hobo pushed his way out from behind the debris that hid his tunnel home. His little slouching body ambled over to the dumpster where he had found some chicken before. If he was lucky maybe there was some he missed.

He climbed onto his little stool and peered inside. There were a couple of old banana peels, greasy newspapers, and the image of a face behind him, reflected in an empty pie tin.

"Hello there, sir." Wilt Chamberlain's voice boomed out. "You realize you are out past curfew, don't you?"

Goose spun around, "Uh, heelo there, my boy, what can I do you for?"

"I have it on good faith that a B-Ball playing punk ran past here a while ago. Name was Steve Nash." Chamberlain loomed over Goose menacingly.

"I've no idea what you're talkin' bout, bub." Goose turned around and continued to rummage for scraps.

"I'm sorry, but for some reason I don't believe you." With a swing of one large hand, Chamberlain knocked Goose of his stool and onto the ground. He lay there, unconscious.

"Take him back to HQ. We'll question him further." Chamberlain walked to the mouth of the alley while two lackeys picked up Gooses' limp body and threw it into the back of a TechnoCar.

"You street people disgust me." Chamberlain said to himself. "When we control the world, I'll make sure filth like you are completely eradicated."

He climbed back into the TechnoCar and moved the seat back to accommodate his long legs. "I don't know where you went, Nash, but rest assured, when I find you, I will break every bone in your little white layup-performing body. Rest assured."


	3. Act Three: The Jump Ball Won

**Barkley, Shut Up and Jam: Gaiden, The Steve Nash Khronicles **

Warning: This Story is Canon

Act Three: The Jump Ball Won

Legendary point-guard Steve Nash and B-Baller extraordinaire Meadow "Meadowlark" Lemon made their way through the little border village that sat on the outskirts of the old Olympic Basketball Stadium. Shanties had sprung up in quite a few places, and there was evidence of lives being lived, yet there was no-one in sight. It was a virtual ghost-town.

Harriet Tubman had been gracious enough to let the pair of Ballers use the Underground Railroad as a means of transport. She had been an old friend of Barkley's, back when he was on his own quest to destroy BLOODMOSES. Nash recalled the stories about the journey that had reached near legendary status in just a few weeks.

Barkley had also made his way from Neo New York with his companions. Balthios, the octaroon great grandson of Lebron James, one of the few people who could use the art of Zaubers. Cyberdwarf, a being from another planet that had crashed onto Earth and had been so scarred that he had needed B-Balls grafted to his very skin. The traitorous Vinceborg 2050 whose repeated betrayals had nearly ended their quest multiple times. And Barkley's very own son, Hoopz Barkley, who decimated his opponents with his deadly Gun's and rollerblades.

They had all disappeared from everything but people's memories, it seemed. Nash couldn't help but compare their situation with his current one. Except he didn't even have any Zaubermasters or Suplex-performing Cyberdwarves to aid his cause. It was just him and Meadowlark, two former players whose slams and jams were no doubt rusty beyond belief. What hope did they have of stopping BLOODMOSES?

"There's the old Olympic Basketball Stadium up ahead." Meadowlark pointed toward the top of the nearby hill. Nash looked and did not see the fancy, state-of-the-art Balling Arena that he had imagined. Instead he saw a crumbling hulk of concrete, an ugly scar on the face of what could have been a pleasant rolling vista. It was more of a heap of building materials than a building at all. The only letters that remained of the original "OLYMPIC BASKETBALL STADIUM" sign were half of a K and an O that hung onto the wall at an angle, supported by a single straining steel cable.

Steve Nash sighed. "Is nothing sacred?"

Meadowlark shook his head sadly. "The post-Cyberpocalypse is a tragic place, but the depths of its depravity never fail to surprise me."

The nagging feeling of absenteeism was getting to Nash. "Harriet told us that the area outside of the Stadium was relatively well populated. Where is everyone?"

"I don't know, Stephen. I was hoping to find somebody who could give us some information about Marques Haynes, but it appears that may have been an unrealistic assumption. We may have to head up to the Stadium ruins ourselves and see if we can find any clues to Marques' whereabouts."

"I wouldn't advise that."

Nash and Meadowlark stopped in their tracks.

"Did you hear that?" Nash asked, mid stride.

"I certainly did. By Clispaeth, I believe we're being followed." Meadowlark scanned the surroundings. "If anyone is there know this; we mean you no harm. We're just passing through on our way to the old Olympic Basketball Stadium."

"I told you, I wouldn't advise that." A little shape stepped out from the shanty shadows. "There's bad things in there. Terrible things."

"Do you live here?" Nash asked as politely as he could muster.

"Aye, I do, and so do many others. But we know better than to go outside after sundown." The old lady hobbled forward. She supported herself with a gnarled tree branch. "You'd do best to leave this place immediately."

"Sorry ma'am, but I'm afraid we cant." Meadowlark smiled warmly. "We have some business we need to attend to. Say... you wouldn't happen to know anything about a Marques Haynes, would you?"

The old woman's concerned face twisted into a frightened scowl. "I haven't heard that name in years." She turned around and hobbled towards her shanty and motioned to them. "Come inside. Quickly."

The interior of the shanty was very shanty-like. That was the best way Nash could describe it. It was also very slanty. Meadowlark had to sit on the floor because otherwise his head would have pierced through the fragile tin ceiling.

"Tea?" The old woman briskly placed a home-made pot onto a home-made stove.

"Excuse me, but is that teapot made out of... a B-Ball?" Meadowlark inquired.

"Yes, yes it is." The old woman smiled sadly. "We don't have much here in Slanty Town, so we make do with what we have. Now that B-Ball is outlawed, this ball serves a much more useful purpose as a teapot."

"Do- do you mind?" Nash reached for the teaball. "I just...I just want to feel it."

The old woman nodded slowly. "I thought you two looked like Ballers. Sure, go ahead. The tea can wait." She gently picked up the teaball and handed it to Nash.

He took it into his hands gingerly. He felt the familiar bumps of the orange rubber, and instantly his mind was displaced to the court. He was there, on polished hardwood. Teammates ran past him. The crowd cheered. The ball sat comfortably in his hands. The familiarity of it all...it was overwhelming. Nash dropped the teaball and it bounced on the dirt floor. Meadowlark caught it.

"I'm sorry...I don't know what came over me." Nash looked down, ashamed.

"A B-Ball is a powerful thing, no matter what form it's in." Meadowlark slowly put the teaball back onto the little stove.

"Don't worry yourselves about it. We've got bigger things to worry about." The old lady paused. "You wanted to know about Marques Haynes, you said?"

"That's correct. We need to find him as soon as possible, Clispaeth willing."

"Marques hasn't been seen here for months. It's true that he used to stay in the old Olympic Basketball Stadium. He used to come down to the town here to see how we were doing. But he stayed there alone, said he liked the solitude. That was before he vanished. And before the Umpire came to power."

Nash looked quizzically at Meadowlark, who shrugged. "The...Umpire? Who's that?"

The old woman scowled. "He's a malevolent menace who resides in the old Stadium. He appeared after Marques left. I think he was the only thing keeping the Umpire away." The old lady's eyes closed. "Every night after sundown, the Umpire comes to Slanty Town. He smashes our houses with a large wooden stick and loots our possessions. If anybody tries to stop him, he attacks them with a torrent of these." The old lady rummaged through a nearby blanket. She pulled out and held up a small leather sphere. It was white and had red stitches sewn around its surface.

Nash held it. It felt nothing like holding the teaball. It felt wrong. He handed it back to the woman.

"He'll be here in an hour or so, I reckon, to pillage and destroy what we have. And there's nothing anyone can do about it."

"Maybe we can help." Meadowlark interjected. "We used to be Ballers. We've still got some moves. Maybe we could stop this Umpire once and for all."

"But what about our mission? We have to reunite the Globetrotters! Shouldn't that take priority?" Nash looked at Meadowlark's perplexed face.

"We have to help everyone in need, regardless of our priorities. That's the Globetrotter way." Meadowlark smiled at the old woman. "We'll stop this guy, by the will of Clispaeth." He turned back to Nash. "We'll head up the ruins of the Stadium and confront this guy before he has a chance to get here. We may find clues to Marques Haynes whereabouts while we're at it."

As Meadowlark ducked outside, Nash was about to do the same, but the old woman spoke. "Here." She tossed him the teaball. "Take this with you."

"But your tea..."

"The time for tea has passed. It's time to shut up and jam."

As Nash held the teaball for the second time, he noticed two Ss written in black ink on the side of the ball. "Hold on a minute. S. S...That means you must be-"

"Sheryl Swoopes. Four-time WNBA champion, three-time WNBA MVP." The old woman smiled sadly. "But those days are gone now. I gave up on B-Ball long ago. Now I devote my life taking care of the people of Slanty Town." Her eyes lit up. "But you, you've still got a chance. Don't forget your roots, don't forget why you got into the game in the first place."

"I got into the game to help people." Nash stood up determinedly. "And that's what I'm going to do. Thank you, Ms. Swoopes. I won't forget."

. . .

The old Olympic Basketball Stadium was even uglier up close. Nash was ashamed to imagine something like this could ever have represented the pinnacle of B-Balling. Chunks of concrete lay strewn around the abandoned parking lot that marked the perimeter of the old building. As they got closer, Nash could see imprints in the walls that seemed to have been caused by the repeated hammering of a large stick.

"I don't like this. I don't like this one bit." Meadowlark ran his large hand against a damaged wall. "What have they done to you, girl? What have they done?"

"Do you feel... queasy?" Nash gripped the teaball tightly in his hands.

"It's the negative B-Ball energies. This place has them going absolutely off the scale. Something here is very wrong." Meadowlark and Nash ventured through the crumbling arch toward the center of the building, where the court was.

Nash had to watch his step, as hundreds of the white and red-stitched balls littered the cracked asphalt beneath their feet. The feelings of nausea only increased as they ventured nearer to the center court. Nash gazed around him as they passed the stands. Thousands of seats, no, tens of thousands of seats surrounded them. That they would have all been filled with eager B-Ball fans at one point was an almost inconceivable thought.

"Holy Clispaeth. Come check this out." Nash hurried over to where Meadowlark was standing. He followed his gaze to the inside wall that surrounded the court. What he saw both confused and terrified him.

All along the inside wall someone had repeatedly written the words RED SOX in uniform capital letters. Over and over. Hundreds of times.

"What the hell?" Nash's eyes widened. He glanced up at Meadowlark, who looked equally perturbed. "What does it mean, Meadow?"

"I...I don't know. I've never heard of anything like this before. Red... Sox." Meadowlark turned around to look at the court. "But it gets even stranger. Look over there."

Nash timidly stepped onto the old court. The rotting wood crunched soggily under his Nikes. Someone had crudely drawn a large diamond shape on the court's surface. At each corner was a square pillow-like object. The numbers 1,2,3 and the letter H were written on separate corners.

"This is...this is a travesty!" gasped Nash. He had no idea what the alien markings meant, but it didn't matter. Someone had desecrated this famous B-Ball court, and that someone was going to pay.

"This isn't a B-Ball Stadium any more." Meadowlark grimaced as he joined Nash in the center of the diamond. "This is something else."

"ThAt'S rIgHt, SpOrTsFaNs!"

Meadowlark and Nash spun around. A figure was crouched on top of the shattered scoreboard. It was wearing a striped uniform and its face was covered by a metal-guarded mask of some sort. In one hand was a thick wooden stick. In its other hand was one of the projectiles that were scattered all over the grounds of the stadium.

"You must be the Umpire, I presume?" Meadowlark shaded his eyes as the light of the setting sun shone drifted through the collapsed ceiling.

"HoMe RuN, aMiGo!" The figure stood up, but stayed perfectly balanced on the scoreboard.

"I can barely understand him," Nash whispered to Meadowlark.

"I'll try to reason with him. We don't want to have to slam and jam if we don't have to." Meadowlark raised his voice. "Umpire, we would kindly like to ask you to stop tormenting the good people who live in the town down the hill."

"StRiKe OnE!" the Umpire shrieked. He leapt off the scoreboard and in one fluid motion began to sprint through the top level of stands, gathering up the little leather balls as he ran.

"Damn, looks like we have no choice." Meadowlark got into a ready position. "This guys just bonkers, Stephen. Totally bonkers. There's no telling what he might do, so stay on your guard."

A minute passed and they waited in the center of the court.

Nash tried to trace where the Umpire had gone, but he couldn't find him. "Do think he left? Maybe we scared him off-"

"Behind us!" Meadowlark jumped in front of Steve Nash just as a hail of leather projectiles rained upon them. Nash rolled out of the way, but Meadowlark took a couple of hits.

"Damn, those little things hurt. And they curve unexpectedly, too." Meadowlark picked up a ball and tried to do dribble it, but it didn't bounce.

"A ball that doesn't bounce?" Nash scowled as he scanned the stands where the balls had come from. He couldn't see anything. "What kind of devilry is this?"

"BaTtEr Up!" The Umpire cackled madly from one end of the court. He threw up a ball high into the air, and slammed his stick into it as it dropped. It spun with wicked velocity toward the duo. Nash ducked just in time and the ball buried itself into the wall behind him, leaving a substantial hole.

"We can't defeat him in here, we're on his turf." Meadowlark backpedaled toward the hall where they had entered from. "We've got to find neutral ground. Even the playing field, so to speak."

"TaKe Me OuT aT tHe BaLl GaMe!" The umpire screamed through his mask. He tossed up four more balls and successively sent them rocketing toward them with his club.

"Back outside!" Nash took off and sprinted for the exit. Meadowlark followed shortly behind. Balls whizzed frenetically past them, smashing into the surrounding walls. They were merely steps from orange glow of the exit when Nash took a ball to the back.

Intense pain racked his body and he collapsed on the hard ground, skidding a few feet.

"My spondylolisthesis!" Nash cried out. He felt his muscles beginning to tighten Meadowlark came to a stop in front of him. Soon he wouldn't be able to walk, never mind run.

"Come on Stephen, we're almost there!" Meadowlark grabbed his arm and began to drag him toward the exit.

"StRiKe TwO!" The Umpire shrieked behind them. He was also running down the hallway, and gaining speed.

"Clispaeth help us." Meadowlark picked up Nash and draped him over his large shoulders. He reached the Stadium exterior with at jog and dropped Nash behind a collapsed P. "I'll try to fend him off. You recover."

"I'm sorry," Nash said weakly.

Meadowlark turned back to him and smiled weakly. "Don't worry about it. We're all bit rusty, aren't we?" He jogged back over the hall entrance and crouched against the wall.

The shrieking grew louder as the Umpire reached the exit. Meadowlark stuck out his leg, and the Umpire rammed into it at full speed. He lost his balance, shrieking "FoUl BaLl!"

His body tumbled down the hill a ways before slamming face-first into a C.

Meadowlark approached the Umpire's crumpled body. "I didn't want it to come to this, but it looks like I may have to slam your ass all the way back to the first quarter."

The crumpled form shifted and the Umpire sat up. "DoN't YoU mEaN fIrSt InNiNg?" His voice was clearer but no less insane through the broken mask.

"No...no it can't be..." Meadowlark stumbled back.

The Umpire ripped off the busted mask. "WhAt'S wRoNg, LeMoN? yOu LoOk LiKe YoU'vE sEeN a GhOsT!" said the wild, grinning face of one Marques Haynes.

Nash slowly stood up from behind the P and limped nearer to where the two former friends were standing.

"Marques... Marques what's happened to you?" Meadowlark said, clearly pained.

"BuY mE sOmE pEaNuTs AnD cRaCkEr JaCkS!"

"It looks like you went completely Cracker Jacks." Nash mumbled from where he stood.

"The old Marques would never assault a fellow B-Baller like this!" Meadowlark grabbed him around the shoulders. "Listen to me, Haynes, number 20, I know you're still in there. Listen to me, you have to come to your senses!"

"I dOn'T cArE iF wE nEvEr Go BaCk!" Marques sprang to his feet, lifting Meadowlark off of his. The confused Baller landed hard on his back.

Nash clutched the teaball in horror as Marques picked up his club and raised it above his head.

"Please!" Meadowlark pleaded. "Listen to me! Stop this crazy nonsense with that stick and these balls, and that... that infernal diamond thing! This used to be a B-Ball stadium! Remember? We used to play in these all the time, shootin' hoops or just generally jammin' or slammin'! We were having the time of our lives! Remember? You used to love to dribble! It was your thing! Please come back to your senses and we can relive those times again!"

Marques' eyes flashed with a boiling insanity. "StRiKe ThReE!" He swung the stick toward Meadowlark's head.

Everything seemed to go in slow motion. Nash looked about him in horror. He looked from Marques to the hanging O that adorned the Stadium wall to the teaball which sat dormant in his hands. He had to do something.

"Hey Marques!" Nash grabbed the teaball tightly with one hand. Marques looked up at Nash for a second.

"CATCH!"

Nash flung the teaball as hard as he could towards the suspended O. It arced majestically through the air. Nothing Nash had done in years had ever felt this natural.

Marques' eyes traced the path of the teaball as it spun toward the O. But it wasn't going to go through the O, it was going to miss it...

Marques dropped the bat and sprinted towards the teaball. The look of insanity in his eyes was replaced by one of determination. He reached the side of the Stadium, just under the O. He placed his left foot on the wall and kicked off of it, sending himself flying upwards, toward the falling teaball.

He grabbed it with both hands.

He slammed it though the center of the O.

The O shattered completely, and Marques landed squarely on his feet. Tears were in his eyes. "Boomshakalaka." He whispered.

The O fell to the ground in pieces. The cable it had been attached to snapped and sent cracks streaking out along the entire wall, along the entire perimeter of the old Olympic Basketball Stadium. It shook the building to its core, and large pieces of it began to slide off. A large rumbling started, as the Stadium slowly but surely collapsed completely around the newly restored Harlem Globetrotter, number 20, Marques Haynes.

"Thank you." Marques cried. "Thank you both so much."

Nash and Meadowlark walked over towards where he was. Meadowlark embraced his friend with in a large hug. "You're okay buddy. You're okay now."

Marques looked upon Nash and smiled. Tears streamed down his grinning face. "You don't know what it was like, living in the old Stadium. Always alone. For years and years, daddyo, I was surrounded by old memories. They haunted me. They drove me mad. I became something... terrible." He shuddered, but then grinned lopsidedly. "But Stevie baby, you gave me back the gift of B-Ball. You gave me back my life, dude."

"Hey, don't sweat it," Nash replied. "We all need a little reminding sometimes."

The three Ballers walked back towards the town as the sun set over the ruins behind them.


	4. Act Four: The Deke

**Barkley: Shut Up and Jam, Gaiden: The Steve Nash Khronicles **

Warning: This Story is Canon

Act Four: The Deke

"Thank Clispaeth you're here, doctor!" The nurse said with relief as the young, handsome M.D. strode into the room. She pried her eyes from his finely chiseled face and blonde-stubbled chin and turned back to the patient lying in the bed. "We've got another one."

"Already? Don't tell me it's another kid." the doctor stood over the patient and quickly but efficiently took out his stethoscope, placing it on the chest of the child in the cot. He waited for a few moments.

The nurse clutched her clipboard in her shaking hands. "This is the third-"

"Child today, I know, I know." The doctor ripped the stethoscope from his ears and threw it to the ground. "Get me 20 CCs of Insulin."

The nurse stood there frozen.

The doctor looked at her with those perfect, sea-green, crystalline eyes. "The Insulin. NOW!"

She hurried away and doctor collapsed back in his chair.

Kids were getting sick at a record pace. They were dropping like flies. And some of the adults had begun to show symptoms too, he noticed.

The nurse hurried back in with the Insulin. "Here you are doctor, but I don't know how this will help..."

The doctor grabbed the Insulin. "Did you know I graduated at the top of my class from MedSchool? Did you know I have multiple majors in Biology, Genetics, Peach Farming, and Applied Med? Don't question me, Sandra." He hooked the kid up to the insulin.

"It's just...this disease is nothing like I've ever seen before." mumbled Sandra the nurse. "How can we hope to treat it without a diagnosis?"

"Oh, but I know exactly what this is." The young, handsome doctor turned and looked Sandra right in the eyes. She shivered.

"This is Diabetes..."

Sandra the nurse fainted.

The doctor finished his sentence."...Type 4."

. . .

Many-times-MVP Steve Nash, living legend Meadowlark Lemon, and recently rejuvenated dribble king Marques Haynes disembarked from the ferry that had brought them to LIBERTY Island. According to Meadowlark's parchment, it was here that they would find the next lost Harlem Globetrotter, retired number 20, Fred Neal, otherwise known as "Curly".

Curly had been know for his incredible stamina. He could run for hours without breaking a sweat. Legend had it that he had once played 26 consecutive games of B-Ball without eating or sleeping in between. And then he had played 10 more.

Nash had never been to LIBERTY Island, but he had heard the tales surrounding it. Home to the Statue of LIBERTY, it also used to be the base of a cult dedicated to eradicating Diabetes in all of its forms. Barkley and his crew had stopped by LIBERTY Island in hopes of saving Hoopz Barkley from Type 2 Diabetes, the type they were never able to cure. On the island they defeated the dreaded Diabeastie, ending the disease once and for all.

As he gazed upon the island, Nash realized just how much had changed since Barkley was here just few months ago. The island had been converted into a Diabetes-themed amusement park, known as LIBERTY FunLand, in honor of the curing of the disease.

"Whoa, this place is off the hook!" Marques Haynes stood awestruck as he gazed at LIBERTY Island's skyline. It was dominated by twisting roller coasters, monstrous log flumes and a giant ferris wheel in the shape of a giant sugar granule.

"I've heard of this place." Nash remarked. "It's supposedly home to the Glucoaster, the most intense ride in the world."

"Just looking at this place makes me sick." Meadowlark muttered. "Let's get in, find Curly, and get out."

They walked towards the large, colorful archway at the entrance of the park. Multi-colored letters spelled out "LIBERTY FunLand: The Sweetest Place on Earth"

A large group of children and a few adults was clogging up the entrance of the park. Many of them were shouting angrily.

A tall man in a blindingly white suit and top-hat was trying to calm them down from behind a lowered metal fence that blocked the entryway.

"What's goin' down here? Those folks don't look too happy to me." Marques commented.

"Shhhhh...That crazy top-hatted fool is saying something." Meadowlark pushed his way to the front of the angry mob as Nash and Marques followed behind.

"LIBERTY FunLand is closed for the day," The man in the white top-hat was saying in a sooting voice that cut through the screams of the mob. "We are suffering from some... technical difficulties. But I assure you, as soon as we have sorted it out, we will reopen the park to the public."

"My kids are still on the rides! You can't just leave them in there!" An furious parent was yelling.

"And I want to ride the Clog Flume!" yelled another adult.

"Folks, folks, please," The man behind the bars said calmly. "We are doing this for your own good. Your children will be released as soon as everything is confirmed to be safe. That's the LIBERTY FunLand guarantee."

"Excuse me sir." Meadowlark moved up to the very front of the line of people. They were easily pushed aside by his athletic build. "It is imperative that we access the grounds of this establishment, technical difficulties or no."

"I'm sorry sirs," said the man in the white suit as he glanced at the trio, "entrance is prohibited to everyone, no matter how tall, or-" he paused mid sentence.

His eyes focused on Meadowlark's jersey. "M-Meadowlark Lemon? Of the Harlem Globetrotters?"

"That's right."

The man's eyes widened. His face was a visage of pure wonder. "You guys had a 99.9999% winning average!"

"That's right, dog." Marques said proudly. "The only time we ever lost was to a make a team of cancer patients feel better about themselves."

"My grandfather loved you guys! I thought that terrible B-Ball Removal Department had gotten rid of you all!" The man dropped his voice. "Did you know that they completely ransacked Kareem Abdul-Jabbar's tomb just a few weeks ago?"

"Those monsters." Nash quietly cursed.

"But I digress. You said you had urgent business in my park? Well, who am I to say no to legends like you!" The man unlocked a little side gate and ushered them through.

"That's a good question." Meadowlark said as he adjusted his long stride to match the pace of the man in the white suit. "Who are you?"

The man took off his top hat and bowed with a flourish, "But how rude of me to forget to introduce myself. "My name is Wilford Brimley Jr., grandson of the late Wilford Brimely."

"THE Wilford Brimley?" Nash said, awestruck. "The same one that was imprisoned in the statue of LIBERTY and cursed to absorb the Diabetes of others so that they could live their lives in peace?"

Brimley Jr. smiled, "The very same. I started this park to honor the memory of my grandfather and all he did to fight Diabetes. But it may all be coming to and end." They paused underneath the Tower of Treacle. His face went dark for a second.

"What seems to be the problem, homeslice?" Marques asked.

Brimley Jr.'s face remained downcast. "It turns out that all the Diabetes wasn't destroyed after all."

"What... what do you mean?" Nash interjected.

Brimley Jr. resumed walking, but this time at a much brisker pace. "We've been doing very well, profit-wise, since we opened. So naturally we started an expansion project." He pointed a white-gloved hand toward a large fenced-off area. A couple of cranes were visible beyond a high wall.

"This park requires a lot of power to run the multitude of rides and attractions that this tiny island sustains. In order to power everything, we tapped into a large underground vault containing large amounts of sugar reserves. We used that sugar to power everything."

"Everything looks like it's running smoothly to me." Meadowlark commented.

"Not for long though." Brimely Jr. leaned on his white cane. "We reached a sugar shortage sooner than anticipated. Right now we're running on a few measly mega-granules.

So a few days ago we began to excavate more of the island, hoping to find more sugar. And we did."

"So what's the big problem then, Brimster?" Marques asked.

"The sugar we found... there was something wrong with it. It was... tainted."

"Tainted?" Nash looked quizzically at Brimley Jr. "What does that mean?"

"It means that everyone who came anywhere near the vicinity of the tainted substance became infected."

"Infected... with what?" Meadowlark stopped walking.

Brimley Jr. turned to face them. His face was graver than death. "Type 4 Diabetes."

"Type...4 Diabetes?" Nash and the others looked at Brimley Jr., horrified.

"I've completed an evaluation of the disease." A voice like deep music rang out from behind them. The four turned around to see an impeccably handsome man in an equally impeccably stylish lab-coat approaching. He stopped when he saw them all.

"Wilford, this is important. I must speak to you in private." The doctor looked good even when perturbed. "Who are these rather large men?"

"Anything you say to me you can say in front of them." Brimley Jr. said sternly. "Doctor, these are three of the greatest B-Ballers that have ever lived. And gentlemen, this medical genius here is Doctor Na-"

The doctor cut him off. "Call me James. Anything else is too formal." His grin slowly drooped into a concerned scowl. "But there's hardly time for introductions. We've lost 12 people to Type 4 and we've got 23 more in the recovery room that are going through various stages of infection."

"What happened to quarantining the area?" Brimley Jr. said sharply.

The doctor replied in an ice cool voice. "We're doing our best, but the strain is as virulent as anything I've ever seen. I have however, been able to deduce the out the order of the stages." He pulled out a clipboard from his coat with an exquisitely manicured hand. "First there's a mild fever. Next comes a sore throat. Third is where it gets serious. Hallucinations begin to become frequent. And lastly..."

"What?"

The doctor grimaced. "The fourth stage is instant death."

Nash recoiled in horror. The post-Cyberpocalypse had once again served up something that made even him, a true B-Baller at heart, want to hide under a rock and never come out.

James reached into one of his many coat pockets and produced three tablets. "This is a anti-Diabetic tablet I was able to create to help stave off infection of Type 4 Diabetes. I suggest you three B-Ball playing gentlemen take one as soon as possible. You could already have contracted the disease simply by talking to us."

Nash and Marques each took a pill and popped them in their mouths with expert precision. Swish.

"What happened to the third gentleman? The tall, skinny one with the afro?" James asked. They looked around, but Meadowlark was no where in sight. The doctor's tone grew more urgent."If he doesn't take this tablet, he could be dead in mere hours."

"I believe I saw him saunter off toward the Big SacchaRide while we were talking." Brimely Jr. nodded toward the giant ferris wheel that dominated the center of the park.

"Oh that Meadowlark," Marques shook his head. "He could never stay still for very long. On or off the court."

"I can't really blame him for being curious. Our ferris wheel, the Big SacchaRide is our main attraction. In fact, the on the very day it was completed it was named one of the 9 wonders of the post-Cyberpocalypse." Brimley Jr. beamed with pride, but then took on a more grim expression. "But if we can't deal with this Diabetes outbreak, the world may be down to only 8 wonders."

"I'm sorry Wilford, but as the resident doctor here, I have to say we have much bigger things to worry about than the sanctity of a kid's ride." James faced Nash and Marques. "I'm going to find your friend and give him the medication before it's too late. You two can't leave the park, understand? If this outbreak were to leave LIBERTY Island... well...we'd all be worse than dead." He turned away swiftly and briskly strode away towards the ferris wheel.

"Kid's ride..." grumbled Brimley Jr. "We don't see eye to eye on a lot of things, me and him, but damn it if he isn't the best doctor I've ever seen."

"We also wouldn't mind looking around," Nash said. "We're looking for someone named-"

"We're looking for and old friend." Marques cut him off.

"Of course. By all means, take a walk and enjoy the park. The damage is already done. I guarantee you won't find shorter lines at any other time of the year." Brimley Jr. flashed a sparkling smile. "I must be getting back to the customers now. You know, to reassure them that everything is under control." He spun theatrically and walked off back toward the gate.

Nash turned, confused, to Marques Haynes. "Why did you cut me off? He could have told us where Curly was."

Marques scowled, "Yo, man, if he had any info about Curly don't you think he would have told us already? BLOODMOSES has ears everywhere, dude. No need to give out any more information than is necessary."

Nash felt ashamed. He was very quick to trust, it was true. He made a mental note to work on that, along with his dribbling and three-point shot. "So you don't think Curly's here?"

"Oh he's here somewhere." Marques wrinkled his brow. "I can sense him. It's one of my talents, daddyo. Back when we played B-Ball I could tell where everyone was on the court at all times without even looking." He paused. "And I can tell there's some seriously weird stuff going on in this park fo' shizzle."

"Well, where do you propose we start looking?"

Marques pointed toward the hall of mirrors. "The Hall of Mutual Loathing," he said. "If my knowledge of Scooby-Doo cartoons is correct, bro, then there should be a door that says "Employees Only" in there. And behind that door will be some answers."

"And if you're not correct, we could be all be dead from Type 4 Diabetes by the end of the day."

"Don't worry, my knowledge of Scooby-Doo is second-to-none." Marques started off toward the Hall of Mutual Loathing. He turned back and grinned at Nash. "Didn't I tell you I've met him?"

. . .

LIBERTY Island.

A handsome doctor ponders the longevity of his medical career.

An amusement park owner takes a tylenol to soften the effects of a fever that has somehow just crept up on him.

Three Ballers wander, searching for something.

And below the forest of stilts that support the rides, below the thick layers of concrete, below the memories of what LIBERTY Island used to be, there is one more.

Curly runs.


	5. Act Five: The Pass

**Barkley, Shut Up and Jam: Gaiden, The Steve Nash Khronicles **

Warning: This Story is Canon

Act Five: The Pass

Meadowlark's brain worked mental overtime as he stood at the base of the Big SacchaRide and stared up at the monstrosity. Tiny sugarcube-shaped seats were fastened to its multiple glittering white spokes. They rocked precariously as the ride slowly rotated, oblivious to the lack of passengers. Meadowlark had to admit, it was fascinating ugly. It looked like a tortured snowflake.

Something Brimley Jr. had said had rubbed him the wrong way. There was no way that there could be enough sugar buried in the core of this island to run a full amusement park for 24 hours, 7 days a week. If the ads were correct, there were over 18 different rides, and more were being built. The amount of sugarfuel required to operate everything would surely have to exceed ninety mega-granules for one day alone.

"There you are," James the doctor panted measuredly as he slowed to a stop behind the Baller. "You've got to take this medication or you could die."

Meadowlark sat down in one of the chairs as it slowly creaked past the starting platform. He looked up at James' face. "Let's talk."

"I don't have time for this," said the doctor, but he sat down next to Meadowlark anyways. The seat slowly left the starting platform and began to rise toward the 200 foot pinnacle of the Big SacchaRide. He took the tablet out of his pocket and held it in front of Meadowlark. "Ingest this now, or your life will be in grave danger."

Meadowlark gazed out solemnly at the garish scenery as they slowly rose. "Did you know that when Barkley defeated the Diabeastie, all the sugar on LIBERTY Island was also destroyed?"

"That's ridiculous." James' shook his head. "LIBERY Island is just overflowing with the substance. It's what powers everything. Without the sugar, this place would just be a lonely rock."

"Oh, sure, that's what Brimely Jr. says, but have you ever even seen any sugar?" Meadowlark stated calmly. "I haven't. In fact, I'm positive that there is no sugar anywhere in this place. And that means there's no Type 4 Diabetes, either."

The doctor pushed the pill closer to Meadowlark's face. "That's crazy, I diagnosed it myself. And I'm never wrong. I'm brilliant. Now I highly recommend that you take this if you want to live."

"Yes, you are brilliant. Your arrogance is a true testament to that." Meadowlark's face remained emotionless as he continued. "Perhaps you are just brilliant enough to manufacture a poison that reproduces the exact symptoms of Type 4 Diabetes. Perhaps you are brilliant enough to turn this poison into a pill. Then let's say you can get people to take it thinking it's an antidote to something they don't even have. A few hours later they drop dead from your disease, and oops, how sad, but medical science isn't perfect, you know." Meadowlark paused, then turned and looked James right in the eyes. "How brilliant are you, Dr. N?"

"I don't have to listen to these accusations!" James sneered. "I'm giving you one more chance to save yourself. Take. The. Medicine." He shoved it right in Meadowlark's face.

With one quick move, Meadowlark grabbed the doctor's extended wrist, twisted it, caught the falling pill in his other hand, and slammed it into the doctor's gaping mouth.

James eyes widened and a look of horror flickered over his face. He turned over the side of the seat and immediately coughed up the tablet.

Meadowlark smiled. "And so we see who you really are, James."

James spun around, furious. His normally good looking face twisted angrily into something horrifying. "Big mistake, Meadowlark." He leapt onto the baller's body with surprising agility, and with one hand drew out a wickedly sharp scalpel from a pocket in his lab coat. He held it against Meadowlark's throat and pinned the player down with his other arm.

Meadowlark struggled in vain. He had grossly underestimated this man's strength, and the cold steel on his neck was beginning to make him wish he been more prepared for this confrontaion.

James the quack smiled, "I hope your friends aren't too sad to learn that their buddy Meadow Lemon died from Type 4 Diabetes. And a deep gash across the neck."

As the little seat reached the top of the ferris wheel Meadowlark looked into the psycho's cold, lifeless eyes, and began to pray.

. . .

Sure enough, there had been an 'Employees Only' door.

Nash had to admit that Marques had a damn fine intuition, only overshadowed by his mad ability to slam and jam.

The door led to a dimly lit access tunnel that went downwards, probably leading towards the middle of the island, if Nash had to guess. Dozens of tiny lights dotted the concrete ceiling. As they plodded through the hall's cool twilight, he made conversation.

"What's the sweetest dunk you've ever made, Marques?"

Marques thought about his for a second. "It was 1953. We were playing against the Symbiotians, a cousin race of the Monstars from the Space Jam."

They stopped in front of another door. A sign on it read 'Supervisors Only'. Nash pushed past it and Marques continued. "There were two seconds left, dude. We were down by one."

"Of course." Nash nodded.

"I was on the bench. I wasn't having a very good game up to that point. But then the ball went off an opponent's elbow, and rolled out-of-bounds to my feet."

"What did you do?"

Marques smiled. "I did the only thing I could do. I picked up the ball right there, and leapt for the hoop. Time seemed to freeze. I was in the air for what felt like years. Then I reached the basket, and I sent it home." the lights in the tunnel began to flicker sporadically. "I smashed the backboard to pieces, twisted the hoop beyond repair, and when I landed, I warped the surface of the court so bad no one was able to play on it ever again."

Nash was very impressed. "And they counted it? But you weren't in the game."

Marques looked at Nash, and his expression was all business. "I doesn't matter if we're in the game, Stevie. What matters is that the Game is in us."

Nash slowly nodded. He felt he was beginning to understand.

They pushed past a third door that read 'Managers Only.' By this time the lights in the ceiling were flashing madly, and a low humming noise could be heard.

"What about you Stevie?" Marques asked. "What's been your sweetest dunk?"

Nash was silent for a long time. A few minutes ago he had started to feel a fever coming on, and this question was only made it worse.

"I...I've never dunked."

Marques stopped in his tracks. "How's that possible?"

Nash felt an endless well of shame rising up in his soul. "I'm- I'm too white. Don't have a good vertical. I've never even been able to reach the basket."

"But you were so good!" Marques was dumbfounded. "You won so many games!"

"All lay-ups and shots." Nash confessed. "I've never told anybody this before."

"Hey, it's okay, bro," Marques said, trying to comfort him. "Dunking isn't for everybody. Do you remember when your best shot was?"

Nash cleared his throat. It was beginning to feel sore, but he chalked that up to embarrassment. "I... I almost made a Four Pointer once."

It was Marques turned to be impressed. "No way, dude...THE Four Pointer? No one's ever been able to do that, except for maybe Barkley."

"There was one second left. We were down by two." Nash said.

"Of course," nodded Marques.

"I was 28 meters away, and, as is required for the Four Pointer, I had my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back." Nash continued, "I took a chance. I went for it."

"What happened?" Marques asked as they paused at yet another door. 'Wilford Brimley Jr. Only' is what the sign said. Nash also stopped walking.

"I missed the backboard entirely. The B-Ball ended up hitting the President's daughter in the head." Nash looked down at the ground. "She died instantly."

"That was you, man?" Marques leaned against the door. He didn't look too well. "I thought she died in a car accident!"

"They covered it up, and since it was an accident, gave me a full pardon. But I've never been able to forgive myself for what I did that day. It may not have been as devastating as the Chaos Dunk, but for me it felt just as bad." Nash felt leaned against the door. "In fact, that was the last real game of B-Ball I ever played."

"I had no idea, man. That's a terrible burden to live with." Marques put his hand on Nash's shoulder. "But it wasn't your fault. You have to believe that."

"I-I'll try." Nash mumbled. He pushed back some tears and some memories and forced himeslf to stand up straight. "We should get on with this, shouldn't we?"

Marques nodded.

Together they kicked down the last door.

The were welcomed into a large concrete room by a deafening hum.

"Sweet Clispaeth..." Nash mumbled as they gazed upon the sight before them.

Marques leaned against the wall, overcome by shock. "Well, it looks like we found Curly..."

. . .

Up on the ferris wheel Doctor James was rambling, as egomaniacs tend to do.

"You see, Meadowlark, all my life I wanted to be famous. Like...like you for example."

"Don't even compare yourself to a Globetrotter!" Meadowlark gasped angrily, but not too angrily, as the scalpel was still at his throat.

James ignored this. "But I had a problem. All famous diseases had already been found. There seemed to be nothing I could do that would gain me the recognition I deserved. So one day, being first and foremost a genius geneticist, I invented my own disease, Type 4 Diabetes, I called it. I tested it in remote areas, a on a few people at time. It was rewardingly effective and joyously fatal, but other practitioners were beginning to get suspicious."

"So what in Clispaeth's most holy name did you do then?"

"Well, you see, eventaully I heard about this place. LIBERTY FunLand, the Diabetes-themed amusement park. It was too perfect. I could do my experiments here, in peace, and everyone would blame what happened on this islands dark history. It was a win-win. I applied for the job of resident amusement park doctor and voilia!" Pride glimmered in the doctors gray eyes. "I just need a few more tests and it will be perfected. Then the whole world will come to learn about the horrors of Type 4 Diabetes, or Doctor James' Disease as will indefinitely be called!"

"You..." Meadowlark rasped out, "You already have a disease. It's called total freakin' sociopathy."

James' eyes narrowed. "I don't appreciate that, Meadowlark. Now, traditionally, I suppose I should give you one more chance to 'join me' or some bullshit, but seeing as I'm the one calling the shots, I think I'll just slit your throat and end it right now."

As he said this, the ferris wheel seemed to begin to spin faster, a glittering granule of sugar reflected perfectly in a madman's eye.

. . .

Curly ran.

He ran fast. He ran strong. He ran constantly. His muscular legs pounded up and down on the surface of the mesh cylinder, causing it to spin faster. Causing him to run faster.

And still he couldn't reach it. That perfect B-Ball, just out of his grasp. I hung right in front of his eyes, just outside the mesh cage. If only he could run a little bit faster- maybe, just maybe- he could break out of this cage and claim that B-Ball as his own

Or maybe he would just continue to run in place, as he had for weeks and weeks, making the giant mouse-wheel spin. Maybe the mouse-wheel would simply continue to be connected to a turbine. And maybe that turbine would remain attached to all of the power cables on LIBERTY Island.

But Curly was oblivious to all of this. He just wanted that B-Ball. He would run and run until he could get that B-Ball. Even if it killed him.

. . .

"They're-they're using him. Like an animal!" Nash watched, horrified, as Fred "Curly" Neal ran in his giant mouse-wheel.

"This is sick. This is just sick." Marques closed his eyes and sank to the floor. "Curly? Why? Why don't you stop?"

"It's that B-Ball." Nash pointed. Suspended from the ceiling outside the mouse-wheel but still in Curly's sight line, hung the most glorious B-Ball Nash had ever seen. It shone like the sun off of a freshly-waxed B-Ball court. It was a First Edition Spalding- one of oldest and finest B-Balls ever made.

"Don't look at it directly, bro!" Marques warned. "It'll entrance you as well."

Nash struggled to avert his eyes, but it took a lot of effort.

"I'm not feeling too well," Nash mumbled.

"Sore throat? Headache? Hallucinations?" A voice echoed from behind them.

The two Ballers looked back toward the door. Wilford Brimley Jr. stood slouched in the doorway. His formerly snappy suit sat disheveled upon his weakening frame. His once regal top hat was soaked with sweat.

"It's the Type 4 Diabetes." He murmured. "It's got us all."

"What have you done to Curly?" Shouted Marques, enraged.

"Your friend here has amazing stamina. He's been running for weeks now, powering this entire amusement park." Brimley Jr. smiled weakly. "You B-Ballers are an amazing breed you know. Such vitality. Such strength. It really was a pleasure meeting you here today."

"What are you talking about?" Nash's headache was getting worse, and room began to twist in his vision.

"As soon as I saw you three outside that gate I knew you had potential. Potential to help me power more spinoff parks all over the world. Picture it: 'GlaucoMania!' or 'TuCirquelosis!' It would be wonderful."

"Wonderful? It's heinous! Imprisoning one man for the pleasure of others is not right!" Nash shot back.

"But didn't they do the same to my grandfather!" Brimley Jr. replied hatefully. "Didn't they imprison him in the Statue of LIBERTY where he lived out all his days taking upon himself the pain and sickness of others? What I'm doing here is just returning the favor!"

"That was different, man." Marques sat with his back against the wall, perspiration dripping down his forehead. "Wilford Brimley _chose_ to help those people. He was a martyr and a hero."

Wilford Brimley Jr. stumbled towards Marques. "You don't know that! You don't know how much he suffered through his Diabetes!" He smiled feverishly. "You know, in a way, it's pretty satisfying to know that you're going to die of Diabetes too, just like he did. And then-"

Brimley Jr. stopped talking mid-sentence. He rotated slowly and walked towards the empty doorway.

"What's that, Grandpa?" he said to the air. "You want me to finish the job now? With my own two bare hands?"

Nash and Marques looked at each other. "Hallucinations." Nash mouthed. Phase three.

Marques crawled over to Nash. "That's gonna be us soon, dog, if we don't do something."

"What should we do?" Nash whispered back.

"Curly. You have to free Curly. He's been entranced by that B-Ball. You've got to take it down. That way he'll stop running."

"Right here? Right now?" Brimley Jr. was still rambling.

"But I can't..." Nash said weakly.

"Why not?"

"It's... it's ten feet off the ground. That's the regulation hoop height in the NBA, and..." Nash paused.

"What?"

"...I can't dunk."

Marques closed his eyes. "Look at me. I sure as hell can't either, bro. I can barely even sit up. So it's gotta be you."

Nash turned back toward the machine and looked at poor Curly. He was still running in the wheel, still going nowhere. It seemed if he would collapse at any minute, but he just kept on running. And the B-Ball was just out of reach, dangling there...

"I'm sorry Mom." Marques began to cry. "I didn't mean to steal those cookies! I'm sorry!"

Hallucinations. They're happening to him too, thought Nash. Which means soon they'll happening to me...

The room began to spin. Nash steadied himelf against a wall, directly underneath the glowing B-Ball. The loud hum of the turbine made it hard to concentrate, but Nash knew he had to focus now more than ever.

He jumped towards the B-Ball, but missed by one foot.

He steadied himself and tried again. This time he missed by two feet.

Nash collapsed on the floor. Fever racked his body and his throat burned like a hot coal. He looked back at Marques, and to his horror saw his friend's body twist into the image of a fish.

"No more cookies, Mom, I swear!" the fish cried.

Beside it, a model train was mumbling, "Strangulation? Good suggestion, Grandfather!"

Nash looked back up at the B-Ball. He had only one more jump left in him, then his body would give up. He squinted at the Spalding Logo stamped on the side.

The letters began to quiver and change.

They became a mouth.

And then two eyes appeared, and nose, and hair. Long, brown, flowing hair.

"...Alejandra..." Nash mumbled, and his wife's face grinned back at him. Her face began to speak.

"Nash, it wasn't your fault."

"But that little girl...she died... because of me."

"It was her time." Her beautiful voice had a calming effect on Nash. He began to feel strength returning to his limbs. "We can not understand the will of the B-Ball gods. We can only hope to live and play in a way that honours the Game."

"You're right." Nash felt tears begin to well up in his eyes. "I've been letting the guilt hold me down all these years. I should just...let it be."

The Spalding-Alejandra smiled.

"Do it Nash!" The fish screamed. "JUMP!"

Nash crouched down low on the cold concrete. He pushed down with all his might and then sprung.

Marques watched feverishly as a man made entirely of soup ladels rose off the ground.

Wilford Brimley Jr. saw an angel reach for a pineapple.

Nash felt his fingers close around the B-Ball. I must be at least four feet off the ground, he thought to himself, amazed. He gripped the rough rubber and pulled hard.

The B-Ball was severed from the wire.

Curly was severed from the trance.

The third Globetrotter slowed his run to a canter, then a walk, and then stood still for a moment. Curly teetered, fell out the side of the giant mouse-wheel and crumpled into a heap on the floor.

Nash clutched the B-Ball as he lay on the ground. It was over. Curly had been freed. Everything was going to be-

Brimley Jr.'s icy fingers closed around Nash's his neck. "I'm doing it Grandfather!" he hissed, "No more B-Ballers will ever hurt you again." He began to squeeze.

Nash gasped as his trachea was closed off. He wasn't going to die of Diabetes, he thought to himself, he was going to die of suffocation.

But then he began to feel a change in his body.

"W-what's happening?" Brimley Jr. shrieked as his hands began to glow faintly.

Nash watched as the fish in his vision morphed back into Marques. He felt his fever begin to recede. He could sense the Diabetes flowing right out through his neck, through Brimley's hands, and into the man's body.

"Let him be, fool!" Marques had managed crawl over to where they were and had wrapped his arms around Brimley's legs. "Leave Stevie be!"

"Auuuugh!" Wilford Brimley Jr. screamed. His legs also began to radiate a faint light.

"It's okay, Marques! I think he's absorbing the disease!" Nash detached himself from the screaming Brimley. He felt good, even great. "It looks like absorbing people's Diabetes runs in your family."

Brimley sank to the floor, still howling. His top hat fell off his head. His skin began to change to a pale white. The irises and pupils in his eyes grew tiny and then disappeared completely. His skin began to flake off in white chunks.

Marques also felt his vitality returning to him as the symptoms of the Diabetes ebbed. His grip on Wilford Brimley Jr.'s legs loosened as they disintegrated. Bits of Brimely poured through his fingers unitl there wasn't anything solid left.

Brimley's wails slowly faded to echoes, and soon all that was left of the man was a grimy white suit and top-hat lying on a pile of sugar.

"Just like his grandfather, whether he liked it or not." Marques murmured as he caught his breath.

The giant mouse-wheel finally creaked to a halt. The lights faded to gray and then went out comepletely, leaving them in complete darkness. And far above, all of LIBERTY FunLand powered down.

. . .

The ferris wheel was going faster and faster. The tiny sugarcube cars were doing complete loops in under a minute. Meadowlark had to hang on tightly to avoid sliding off, and this was made considerably harder by the gleamingly sharp scalpel still held at his neck.

Doctor James seemed to be having no problems staying balanced, and he was gripping the safety bar with just one hand. He pressed the scalpel deeper with his other one. "Any last words?"

And then Meadowlark heard the generally chippy music of the Coma Carousel slow down, and then stop completely. Mulitiple lights all over the park went out. And then the ride just stopped. Their tiny car jerked roughly to a halt at the very height of the wheel. The instant change in speed threw the doctor off balance. Meadowlark flung his own weight forward and knocked James off the edge of the wildly rocking car.

James hung from highest car of the highest ride in the park. One pale, shaking hand was all that separated him from a fatal drop. Blood started to pour out from his gripping hand, as he still clutched the scalpel in his palm.

"Help me-" his hand finally gave up, and he fell.

Meadowlark peered over the edge of the car and caught a glimpse of the doctor's body as it fell. He closed his eyes as it hit the ground below with a dull, unpleasant whumph.

When he had regained his composure, the Baller slowly inched his way out of the chair and down the massive metal skeleton of the ferris wheel.

When he reached the bottom he made himself a promise.

He was never coming back to LIBERTY FunLand.

Even if he had kids.

. . .

Wilt Chamberlain exited the torture room to answer his cellphone.

"Yeah boss, it's me. We've been messing him up for hours, and I think we've finally got some useful information." Chamberlain spoke loudly so that the person on the other end could here him over the frequent screams that always decorated the background ambience of Torture Level 6.

"He says that Nash has teamed up with Meadow Lemon and Marques Haynes. They're trying to create one last B-Ball team, and then they're planning on coming to destroy us." The voice on the other end spoke for a while, and then Chamberlain responded. "Of course I'm not worried. Well, okay, we can incerase the development speed on project KA-J as a precaution, but I'm sure me and my men can handle any possible threats."

He paused for a second just to enjoy the sounds of the screams. After a little while he continued. "Yes boss, I'm aware that they are gaining strength and confidence as we speak, but it doesn't matter. Why? Because I think I have a pretty good idea where they're going to be headed next. I'm going to beat them there and catch them by surprise. Then I will destroy them."

Chamberlain closed the cellphone. He flicked it in the air, caught it with the back of one of his hands and let the little machine roll down his shoulders, behind his head, to the other hand. He flicked it up again and it spun rapidly in the air before landing neatly in the slot on his belt.

"This time I'm coming for you Nash." Chamberlain said to himself as he smiled maliciously. "There will be no more screwups. I'll find you and your friends and I'll kill them in front of you. And then I'll kill you."

And behind the ninth door on the left in Block D of Torture Level 6, Goose lay strapped to a table. Every once in a while someone would enter or leave the room. And every once in a while, Goose would scream.


	6. Act Six: A Wild Shot from Downtown

**Barkley: Shut Up and Jam, Gaiden: The Steve Nash Khronicles **

Warning: This Story is Canon

Act Six: A Wild Shot from Downtown

Deep within the heart of Proto Neo Anti-North America, there is a dense, junglish forest. Deep within the core of the thick, festering clump of flora there is an ancient, crumbling temple. Deep within the bowels of the decrepit, forgotten necropolis, drifts a crimson mist. It's very old.

It can sense something changing. People are coming.

It uncoils its hazy, serpentine form and begins to meander through the labyrinthine depths of its lair. The scarlet fog feels the essences of the visitors grow stronger as they draw closer. It increases speed, twisting around corners and through junctions, up dusty shafts and down wretched columns. It barrels up several flights of corroded stairwells until it reaches the top of its temple.

From here it can see the entire perimeter of its home. Or rather, feel it. It has no eyes.

But it does have stomach. A stomach that seethes and growls with an unquenchable hunger.

Hunger for souls.

. . .

Nash sweatily hacked through the endless undergrowth. Beside him, Meadowlark, harrowingly tall, and proud owner of a grade-A afro, also swung a recently-purchased machete.

Behind them plodded Curly. His giant body was being continuously stuffed full of chicken-fries. Nash had never seen anybody eat so much, but in Curly's defense, he had been running for five weeks straight without any nourishment.

Marques Haynes strode confidently between the three of them. He had his brow furrowed in concentration.

"This way." Marques pointed a single, dexterous finger in a seemingly random direction Nash and Meadowlark changed angles and began to hack a trail toward a different vector.

"Are you sure that Reece Tatum is all the way out here, in this Clispaeth-forsaken place?"

Nash asked as he decapitated some sort of creeping vine that he swore had been looking at him.

Marques nodded patiently, "I told ya, dog, I have a gift. I know where my fellow Ballers are. And I can definitely tell you that good old, joke-crackin', lanky-armed, mother-flippin' Tatum is most definitely very near." He grinned and looked over at Curly. "You believe me, right, pal?" Curly responded with a grunt and shoved and handful of chicken-fries into his oral cavity.

"Doesn't say much, does he?" Nash whispered to Medowlark.

"What Curly lacks for in verbal communication, he makes up for in B-Ball domination." Meadowlark replied. He swung his machete and took out a small tree. It made a noise as it died.

"You know, I'd always heard that Reece Tatum had died in El Paso, Texas, in 1967." Nash hacked some more, "But I guess nothing should surprise me at this point."

Meadowlark grinned. "I remember that. Good ole' Tatum, faking his own death for a laugh. He always loved practical jokes. Trust me when I say he's still around. He's much too clever to go out with whimper."

"It's classic Tatum," nodded Haynes. "He was always amusing us with funny voices and slapstick antics. It'll be good to see him again." He paused for a second. "What was that old nickname we used to have for him?"

"Beats me if I can remember." Meadowlark swung his blade in a large arc and four things fell at once. "I haven't seen him for years. I can barley even remember what he looks like."

"Well, hopefully we'll all be able to see him soon, just as-" Nash stopped talking as his last slash had parted what remained of the jungle, revealing a massive clearing.

And in the middle of the clearing, stood a giant, mayan-inspired vestige.

Nash heard a soft thump as Meadowlark's machete hit the ground.

"Clispaeth help us, I just figured out where we are," Meadow Lemon mumbled under his breath. "This is Cuchulainn's tomb."

. . .

Hidden by the thick undergrowth, Wilt "The Stilt" Chamberlain watched as the four Ballers entered the dark mouth of the mammoth ruin. He adjusted his vision through the BINOCULARS and swept his gaze around the jungle that surrounded the temple. He could just barley make out the figures of three B-Ball-teams-worth of his BLOODMOSES agents. They were spaced evenly around the entire circumference of the jungle's edge.

One such agent crouched next to him, his dark green camouflage outfit blending perfectly with the brush surrounding him. "How did you know they would be here, boss?"

"They were always one step ahead of me, it's true." Chamberlain lowered the BINOCULARS slowly. "But it wasn't long before I figured out a definite pattern to their movements."

"Whaddayamean, boss?"

Chamberlain toweled off his head. The humidity here was ridiculous. "It's quite simple really. We found Nash hiding in Neo New York. Then he escaped to Cesspool X, where he met Meadowlark. Next they traveled along the Underground Railroad, and then took the Ferry to LIBERTY Island." He looked over that the decidedly less-than-intelligent lackey his boss had insisted he hire. "Sound familiar?"

The agent looked confounded for a minute, but then it dawned on him. "That's the same trail that Barkley followed on his foolish quest to destroy BLOODMOSES!"

Chamberlain nodded, "Exactly. It's no coincidence, I believe. The B-Ball gods are guiding Nash and his crew down the same road that Charles Barkley himself once trod. And do you know where Barkley went after LIBERTY Island?"

"Cuchulainn's tomb!" The minion exclaimed proudly.

"Exactly. And lo and behold, that's the very same ruin Nash and company entered but moments ago."

The minion looked perplexed, "Our orders are to terminate them on sight. We just had an opportunity to end it now! Why don't we go in there and finish them off?"

"Silence!" Chamberlain roared. "Do you have any idea how powerful Cuchulainn is? He could kill us all right here, right now, if we so much make a single wrong movement. And we'd be dead before we'd even realize what had happened."

"I- I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't." Chamberlain resumed looking at the entrance of the temple through his BINOCULARS. "No one save Barkley and his crew have ever left Cuchulainn's tomb alive. And that's why I'm positive that Nash and his friends are surely doomed." He could tell that his underling was still not confident. "And besides, if, by some miracle, they do manage to get out alive, we've got the entire area covered. We got enough GUN'S here to start a small war. They're dead no matter what."

The minion looked at the temple nervously. For a second he thought he saw a ball of red mist hovering over the pinnacle. Relax, he told himself, it's all in your head.

And in a way, it was.

. . .

"This place is giving me the creeps, brothers." Marques Haynes said as they wandered through an stone-carved hallway. The only sounds that the four of them could hear were their own footsteps, and the continuous crunching of chicken-fries as Curly ate. And the whispers.

The whispers. They were constant, just barley audible, but they were there. They were making Nash very uncomfortable. He tried to regain some confidence. "What's so bad about this Cuchulainn guy anyways? What's his deal?"

"He's not a guy," Meadowlark said as he led the way through a statue-laden chamber. "And his deal is he's a demon god. A demon god of immense power, and insatiable bloodlust. Barkley released him by accident when they visited this site."

"But I thought Cuchulainn's tomb stood on the outskirts of a small wasteland village?" Nash wondered aloud.

"Oh, it did, dog. You be right about that." said Marques. "But when Cuchulainn was released, he quickly changed the surroundings to fit his twisted preferences. The village was destroyed, and everyone who lived there with it. Within mere days, a massive jungle grew out of the wasteland. Nobody comes round here anymore, man. Well, at least, nobody comes back from here."

"But the most dangerous thing about Cuchulainn is how he kills you." Meadowlark added.

Nash shuddered. "H-how does he do it?"

Meadowlark's voice grew solemn. "What he does is..."

"He shows you what you most desire, dude." Marques finished for him. "Then, when you have accepted the evil illusion as reality, he sucks out your soul. Slowly and painfully. One souldrop at a time."

"It's worse than dying." Meadowlark looked back at Nash. "So whatever you do, if you see something that doesn't seem to fit in this place, don't touch it. Do. Not. Touch. It."

They all paused as they had reached the interior of the biggest chamber yet. Nash gazed around them at the horrible sights. Twisted, creepy faces were carved into every surface of the room. Even the floor was covered in gut-churning etchings of beasts that no men were ever meant to see. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "You're sure...you're sure Tatum's here?"

"Most certainly," Marques looked around them. "But it's odd. I can feel his presence...everywhere."

Meadowlark looked ahead of them. "Well, there are four tunnels that split off from here. Do you know which one we should take, Haynes?"

Haynes shook his head in defeat. "Like I said. It's like he's everywhere. All of the choices ahead could be equally valid."

Nash felt his skin grow cold. Four tunnels. Four Ballers. It was like they had been expected...

"Well, we're going to have to split up." Meadowlark said without much enthusiasm. "I know, the thought of being alone in this place is worse than... well, it's even worse than being benched during a playoff. But it's our only option if we want to find Tatum and get out of here as soon as possible."

Marques nodded solemnly. "I'll take the far left. Nash you take the middle-left."

"I'll take the middle-right path." Meadowlark turned to Curly. "You got the tunnel on the right, okay Curly?"

Curly grunted his approval.

"Okay then," Nash said. "If something happens..."

"Nothing's gonna happen." Meadowlark said assuredly.

"But if something does... I just want you guys to know that..." Nash paused and swallowed a lump in his throat. "...I'm sorry. I'm sorry I gave up on B-Ball and I'm sorry that it took you guys to remind me of it's glory. I'm... I'm not fit to have you as my friends."

Marques slapped Nash across the face. "Don't apologize, do you hear me? We could never have gotten this far without you! You are a fine B-Baller and I am honored to call you my friend. Even... my teammate."

"I feel the same way Nash," Meadowlark said. "You're truly the captain of this team. Isn't that right, Curly?"

Curly grunted between chicken-fries.

"The time for words is over," Meadowlark said.

Nash nodded determinedly. "It's time to slam and jam."

. . .

Marques Haynes, B-Ball player, expert dunker, and all-around cool cat wandered down the lonely tunnel. He tried to sense where Reece Tatum may have been, but the feedback was overwhelming him. He stopped focusing on locating his friend and instead tried to block out the whispers.

_Don't let them get to you, dog. You da man. _Marques thought to himself. How embarrassing would it be to be seen on a B-Ball court acting all afraid? He stood up straighter and marched onwards. He had an image to uphold. An image of ice-cool confidence, high self-esteem, and general radicalness.

He ignored the grotesque carvings that surrounded him and focussed on the path ahead. This whole place was designed to get under one's skin, but he would sooner pass up an opportunity for an alley-oop than admit that it was getting to him. And yet it _was _getting to him...

He stopped as he saw something in the darkness up ahead. It looked like someone sitting against a wall. He approached it cautiously.

It was someone sitting against the wall. Or rather, it had been. All that was left was a skeleton. Its face grinned blankly at Marques.

Marques was just about to hurry past it when he noticed the skeleton's feet. They were covered by shoes.

Vintage Air Jordans. Blindingly white. Crisp, new laces. Unadulterated soles...

Shoe perfection.

Marques Haynes couldn't help but imagine what he would look like with those on. Why, he'd look impeccable. It would take his finely-tuned wardrobe to a whole new level, dude. His mad dunks would only get sicker if he was wearing those. Surely these shoes represented the pinnacle of what his cool-guy persona could be.

He tentatively reached out a hand. He'd just slip them on for a second, you know, to see what they felt like. Nobody would have to hear about it...

_Wait_. His shaking fingers stopped mere centimeters from the perfectly looped laces. What was he thinking? B-Ball wasn't about the shoes. It wasn't about the clothes. Hell, it wasn't even really about the style.

It was about the love of the Game.

He withdrew from the skeleton as fast as he could. He turned away and continued quickly down the tunnel, afraid that he would change his mind he if stopped even for a second.

_That was close_, he thought to himself. _I almost fell for that shit. I have to be more careful. I don't want to be goin' all whack when there's work to be done._

Behind him, in the darkness, the shoes dissolved into a fine, red mist...

. . .

As he lumbered lethargically through the darkness, Curly munched down hard on his seeming-infinite supply of chicken-fries. He finished a box. He tossed it on the cool stones behind him. He reached into his deep pockets and produced another one. He opened it up. He resumed eating.

_Dang, these fries are good_, was one of the thoughts that went through his head. _Really good. I could eat these all day. I could eat these for the rest of my life. _

And another, quieter thought trailed just behind the larger one. _I'm getting kind of thirsty..._

Something glimmered in the darkness up ahead. Curly looked up from his box of chicken-fries and squinted. It looked like...

He lumbered closer.

There was a pedestal in the middle of a small chamber. But more importantly, there was something on the pedestal.

It was a clear bottle. Inside the bottle swirled a deep, pink liquid. An there, on the side, Curly could clearly read the bold letters that were written in all caps.

Gatorade.

Curly shivered and closed his eyes. Dear Clispaeth, he hadn't had Gatorade in years, not since the B-Ball Removal Department had declared it an illegal substance. He had missed it so much, like a parent misses a child. His life had not been complete since he had tasted that last drop of 'Extremo Citrico Vibrante' so long ago.

And those chicken-fries were awfully salty...

He tucked the now half-empty box of chicken-fries under an arm and bent closer to examine the bottle and its glorious contents. What flavor was waiting for him inside that lovingly crafted plastic container?

Hold on... 'Passion Fruit'?

_Seriously? 'Passion Fruit'?_ Curly thought angrily. He'd been looking for the mother of all thirst-quenchers for years, and the one he finally manages to find is... Passion Fruit? Everyone who was anyone knew that all the best flavors had words like 'Fierce' and 'X-Factor' in front of them. This was beyond weak. He spit out a chicken-fry in disgust, and trudged past the drink. He'd just have to keep looking.

The whispers grew louder, more frustrated. The Gatorade bottle shimmered and disappeared.

. . .

Meadowlark sauntered cautiously down the narrow passage. He tried not to shudder as the oddly-shaped walls brushed against his skin. He wondered how the others were doing. He had faith in them. Clispaeth would protect them, the Reverend Meadow Lemon reassured himself.

Their journey was almost over. They had managed to find over half of the Harlem Globetrotters with retired numbers. The best of the best. And if Marques Haynes was right then they were close to finding Reece Tatum, too. And then there was the matter of Wilt Chamberlain... but he would worry about that bridge when they got to it.

He reminded himself to stay in the moment. In order to be a good B-Ball player you had to be in a state of constant preparedness, ready to receive a pass or make a block or take a foul at at moment's notice. Now was no different. He had to prepare himself for whatever temptation Cuchulainn had in store for him.

He shook his tired head. He'd been hiding for so long. He'd been fighting against 'The Man', the shadowy leader of BLOODMOSES, for so long. There was never any time to really step back, to take a half-time break, so to speak. There was always something that needed doing, someone that needed helping. It was exhausting.

But if they did manage to leave this place without having all of their souls eaten, and then if they finally did manage to defeat BLOODMOSES once and for all, then he could rest. Then he could kick back for a little 'Lemon Time'.

"Meadowlark?" Nash's voice called from up ahead in the tunnel.

"Nash? Are you there?" Meadowlark called back. "Did the tunnels finally reconnect?"

Nash walked out from behind a corner. "Meadowlark! There you are! We've been looking all over for you!" He was smiling.

"Well you certainly seem to be in better spirits. What's going on?" Meadowlark leaned against the wall.

"We found him!" Nash grinned. "We found Reece! He was just up ahead! He's okay!"

Meadowlark felt a huge wave of relief wash over him. "Well done, Stephen! That wasn't so hard after all!"

"We're all just taking a break now, you know, recharge our batteries. No need to go rushing out immediately. Let's soak in this small victory." Nash pointed to a chair-shaped rock in a small room just past the corner. "Why don't you have a seat for a while? You deserve it."

"You know, Clispaeth willing, I really think I do." Meadowlark walked over to the stone. "You guys didn't even need me this time. I'm proud of you." He bent down to have a seat.

"Yeah, and we were talking," Nash took a second and then continued, "And we think we can take it from here."

Meadowlark paused, his rear hovering above the surface of the chair. "Huh? What do you mean?"

"You've been a big help, Meadowlark, and you really need a break. We can all see it. So we'll just finish the rest of the mission without you. You can sit down here, relax, and take as long as you like. Enjoy having no more responsibilities. We'll go out there and beat BLOODMOSES on our own, it's okay."

Meadowlark grimaced. "You know what, that's awfully kind of you Stephen, but I think it's best that I finish what I start." He stood back up and turned away from Nash.

"No!" Nash yelled. "Sit down! Close your eyes! We've got it covered. We don't NEED YOU ANYMORE!"

"Sorry Stephen." Meadowlark began to slowly walk away. His legs ached, his feet ached. His whole body ached. But he couldn't just let everything go. Not yet.

The thing that wasn't really Nash scowled as Meadowlark vanished into the dark ahead. He stamped his foot in anger. And then he was gone.

. . .

The real Steve Nash jogged down the corridor. He wanted to get out of this claustrophobic place and meet back up with his friends as soon as possible.

Jogging alone gave him time to really think, something Nash had not had much of an opportunity to do lately.

B-Ball. That's what Nash thought of. It's what every player really thinks of, underneath all the other thoughts. There were the basic needs. Food, water, shelter, good health, family. But beyond all that, past all the regular, everyday struggles, there was always B-Ball.

At least there had been, before the blasted B-Ball Removal Department and BLOODMOSES had risen to power.

Nash's introspective thoughts were interrupted by a sound.

Nash stopped in his tracks. He knew that sound anywhere. It was the sound of a B-Ball being bounced on perfectly waxed hardwood. He began to hear other sounds. Faint cheers, the tick of a clock, the pounding of shoes on a court. They all began to grow louder, becoming deafening...

Nash launched into a full sprint and closed his eyes. The noises swam around him. The cool air of the temple changed into the warm, sweaty, competitive air of a B-Ball arena in mid-game. The hard stone he had been previously running on became the glorious glowing surface of a B-Ball court, complete with painted lines. And Nash changed. He relaxed, let his guard down. Became his real self. He opened his eyes.

He was in the middle of a B-Ball court. Teammates and opponents alike ran past him down the court. The fans screamed. The clock ticked.

Nash was home.

Without thinking he glanced up at the scoreboard. His team was down by one. There were four seconds left. And he knew what he to do.

"Over here!" Nash yelled to his team at the other end. "I'm open! Pass it to me!"

His team had managed to regain possession and had finally noticed that he was on the court. Nash couldn't help but smile.

This was what it was all about, when you finally got down to it. This was where he belonged. On a B-Ball court, playing B-Ball. He didn't belong in alleyways, hiding from the B-Ball Removal Department, he didn't belong in a sewer. He didn't belong in an Amusement Park, or the ruins of an ancient demon god's temple.

He belonged here.

His teammate wound up and threw the ball, underhand, from the other end of the court. Nash watched it arc in the air toward him. It was a perfect pass. It was a perfect game. Everything was perfect. _How could I ask for anything more?_ He thought to himself.

_"He shows you what you most desire, dude. Then, when you have accepted the evil illusion as reality, he sucks out your soul." _Marques voice echoed quietly in the very back of Nash's mind. But he heard it all the same.

Nash blinked. Of course this was perfect. It wasn't real. Not even a real B-Ball game could have ever felt this good, Nash realized. It was all an illusion.

The ball hung in the air, ready to land perfectly in Nash's waiting arms.

He ducked. The B-ball went over his head and bounced on the hardwood behind him. It bounced down the court, eventually rolling to a stop under their opponents' basket. The buzzer went. The game was over. They had lost.

Nash blinked. He sighed. He took one step, and then another. Steve Nash walked down the cold, lonely stone passageway, and cried.

. . .

They reconvened in a medium-sized chamber that was completely empty.

"Is everyone okay?" Meadowlark asked the three other Ballers. They all looked noticeably paler than when they had entered the temple.

Nash fell to his knees. "I-I saw-"

Meadowlark helped him back up. "You don't have to tell. What we saw was for us, and us alone. What matters is that we all made it."

"And Reece Tatum is just through that crawl-space." Marques pointed toward a tiny rectangular slot at the base of the far wall. "I know it."

"Let's get this over with. Then we can get out of this hell-hole." Meadowlark crouched and began to crawl on his hands and knees through the space.

Curly burped, and then followed. Marques went behind him. Nash brought up the rear.

They crawled for what seemed like hours. Nash was just about to turn back when the hole opened up into a small room. The four ballers looked on at the sight that greeted them.

Reece Tatum was a tall, handsome man with a finely-combed goatee. He was chained to a wall, his feet buried in hot coals. He was silent, but conscious, and tears streamed down his face. He glanced up at the newcomers and a look of joy spread across his pained face.

"Y-you came..." He whispered. "I knew you'd come..."

"He's hurt, but he's alive, thank Clispaeth." Meadowlark stepped toward their tortured comrade. "Let's get you out of those chains."

"Wait." Nash grabbed Meadowlarks arm. "Hold on a second."

"Nash, we have to do something! He's in great pain, dude!" Marques said urgently.

Nash turned to look at Reece's face. It was all scrunched up. He was clearly in agony. Nash cleared his throat. "Why did the B-Baller cross the court?"

"W-what?" Tatum looked frightened and confused, and Marques couldn't take it any more. "Move out of the way, man. I'm going to free him!"

"Wait, Haynes." Meadowlark stopped his friend with a kind but strong arm. He looked into Tatum's eyes. "Why did the B-Baller cross the court, Tatum?"

"S-stop telling riddles and h-help me!" Reece Tatum shrieked. He lunged forward but the chains held him fast.

"That was Reece's favorite joke..." Marques said slowly. "He told us that one in the locker room every day. He loved that joke..."

"And since he won't answer it..." Meadowlark looked away sadly.

Curly stopped eating.

Nash put a hand on his big friend's shoulder. "This isn't the real Reece Tatum." He turned back to Tatum. "Begone, Cuchulainn! We won't be fooled that easily."

Reece Tatum's face began to change. They watched horrified as it melted into a featureless mass and, along with the rest of his body, the chains, and the coals, coalesced into one giant ball or crimson fog.

The fog made a terrible sound, like a train hitting a busload of cats. The ballers held their ground. It made the sound again, and then it billowed past them though the small hole in the wall.

"I can't... I can't sense Reece anymore." Marques looked to the ground. "It's like he was never here at all."

"Most likely he wasn't." Meadowlark said sadly. "Most likely Cuchulainn used the lure of finding Reece Tatum to get us all in here, so he could devour all of our souls at once. After all, the best kind of soul is Baller soul."

"It's true," Nash nodded. "We all fell for it. But now that we know he's not here we can finally leave." And as they began to shuffle out of the room, the whispers stopped.

. . .

"They're coming out, boss! They're coming out!"

Chamberlain roughly grabbed the BINOCULARS from his lackey. He peered excitedly through them. Sure enough, four shapes were leaving the mouth of the temple. He increased the zoom and recognized them as the four they wanted.

"All units, engage the enemy!" He yelled into his walkie-talkie. He was going to use all the fire-power at once. No way they were getting away again.

With a roar, shapes burst forth from the jungle on all sides and rushed toward the four confused Ballers. Chamberlain followed a little behind. He wanted to savour this.

"Fire! NOW!" He ordered with a shout.

The henchmen all began to let loose. Bullet streamed from their GUN'S.

Marques fell first, then Meadowlark. Curly took a dive. Finally, Nash collapsed as well.

The minions all gathered joyously around the corpses of their victims.

"They're definitely dead," said one. "We did it boss!" Another yelled. "Promotions for everyone!" Shouted a third.

Finally, after all they had been through to track these suckers down, they had found them. Chamberlain could scarcely believe this moment had come. He was just about to let out a victory cheer, when something strange happened.

Red mist began to pour out of the fallen bodies. It swirled slowly at first, then picked up speed. Chamberlain back away, terrified, as it engulfed the henchmen completely.

Then came the screams. Chamberlain would remember them for the rest of his life.

In all actuality, it didn't last very long. The red cloud eventually spread thinly over the moist ground and dissipated. There was nothing left. Not even any bodies.

Except there was one body left. And it stood up, and it walked towards the frightened, hysterical Chamberlain.

"B-Big brother?" Chamberlain said between sobs.

His big brother looked at him with concern. "Why are you like this, Chambie?" He asked. "Why do you hate B-Ball so much?"

"I j-just...I just wanted to play B-Ball with you..." Chamberlain cried. "You never let me play with you! It's all I ever wanted to do... I just wanted to play some B-Ball with my big brother!"

"I know that now." his brother smiled warmly. "Forget about those older boys I used to play with. They were mean. They made me mean, they made me exclude you. I'm finally ready. I'm ready to play B-Ball with my little brother."

"Really?" Chamberlain looked through teary eyes. He couldn't believe this was happening. "You want to play with me? I'm so happy!"

Chamberlain's brother opened up his arms. "Come give your big brother a big hug, Chambie. And know that I love you."

As he exited the temple, Nash saw Chamberlain get to his feet. The grown man was weeping openly as he stumbled toward the ball of swirling red mist. "I love you too!" He was saying. "I love you big brother!"

"No!" Nash bolted up the grassy hill toward the sobbing man. "Get away from it, Chamberlain!" He tackled him roughly and they sprawled on the ground.

The other three Ballers exited the temple and caught up with Nash.

"What happened?" asked Marques as he looked at the weeping figure of Chamberlain.

"He just about had is soul eaten." Nash looked around. He saw a trace of red mist disappear into the mouth of the temple. "But I think everything is okay now."

They left Chamberlain sobbing on the grass and walked back toward the jungle. They were just about to enter the thicket when a still-sniffling Chamberlain caught up to them.

"I'm sorry..." He said, as all eyes were upon him. "I'm so sorry. I was wrong to hunt you down, to try and destroy B-Ball." He paused and turned away in shame. "I had a bad relationship with my brother. During my life, it always hung over me like a cloud, affecting my actions, poisoning me against B-Ball, against you. I wanted to kill you, and you knew that, and yet you still saved me. So..."

"So what?" Asked Nash.

"I want a second chance. It wasn't B-Ball that had problems. It was me. And now I'd like to make it up to you."

"How?"

"I know where the BLOODMOSES headquarters is. I can take you there."

"But we haven't found the fifth retired number yet!" Meadowlark interrupted.

"There's no time." Chamberlain said. "The KA-J project is near completion. If we don't stop it, then there won't be a fifth number. There won't be a fifth anything."

Nash looked at his companions, and then back at Chamberlain, and nodded. "Okay, Chamberlain." He said. "The ball's in your court."


	7. Act Seven: Swish

**Barkley: Shut Up and Jam, Gaiden: The Steve Nash Khronicles **

Warning: This Story is Canon

Act Seven: Swish

'The Man' swiveled in his chair to face the hundreds of monitors that adorned his insulated, compact command station. He was called 'The Man' because he was the shadowy head of the semi-secret and nearly all-powerful faction known as BLOODMOSES. Right now his own shadowy head was barely illuminated by a single red lightbulb and the flickering, multicolored radiation of his many surveillance screens.

'The Man' was pissed. Moments early he had been subjected to listening to a whining trickle of bad news that had leaked out of his intercom. After hearing the bad news, he instantly had the person who gave it to him executed on the spot. You didn't get to be the head of something like BLOODMOSES by having personality flaws such as mercy.

'The Man' fumed internally. His genius mind worked madly, processing multiple plans on multiple levels. Finally, mentally, he chose one plan. Then his brain switched to an even higher gear. He unraveled the plan he had chosen, pondered every possible consequence of every possible part of the plan, all variables accounted for, and let mental simulations wind their way through his head. He found an end point that satisfied him. He locked it down. He would now simply perform the steps that were required to achieve the results he had calculated.

All of this took mere seconds.

With one hand he picked up a communicator and spoke into it.

"Send me all of Beta Team. And one of the finished KA-J models." His voice was calm and smooth, but sharp, like a knife under a tablecloth.

He put down the communicator and went back to scanning his monitors. He had every square inch of BLOODMOSES headquarters under surveillance. If so much as a drop of sweat hit any part of any floor of any room, he'd know about it.

So how on earth did the prisoner escape?

In less than a minute his people were before him. Five men made up Beta Squad. Behind them loomed the impossibly tall form of a KA-J model. They were all nervous. Except the KA-J. But he didn't exactly have what you'd call 'emotions'.

'The Man' swiveled to face them. As they made eye contact one of his men gasped.

"Wh-what happened to your face?"

"Silence!" said 'The Man'. It was worse than a shout. It was a quiet hiss that cut right to the bone. "Beta Team. Search the entire premises. Scour ever location, every torture floor, every training court, until you find Goose."

"The homeless guy?" One of Beta team asked.

"Yes. It seems that I underestimated him. That is not a mistake that will be made twice. If you find him, kill him. Now get out of my sight." 'The Man' swiveled to face the KA-J as Beta Team hurried out. "And you," he continued. "You are to go out and meet the five men that are approaching from the west side. Do what you have to do to make sure they do not reach the Headquarters."

'The Man' swiveled back to his screens. "Go."

KA-J, otherwise known as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, quietly left the room. He had work to do.

. . .

"There it is." Chamberlain said as the rest of the company shambled up the ridge behind him.

Nash reached the crest of the black, craggy mountainside and stared down. They were on the top of the rim of a giant crater. Below them, in the epicenter of the massive pit, sat a building that he instantly recognized. It was clean and white, in stark contrast to the black craggy formations that surrounded it. Instead of a roof, the top half was a giant glass dome. It looked exactly like a bisected B-Ball.

"No..." Nash said, jaw dropped open. "That's The Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame!"

Marques Haynes gasped over his shoulder. "Dude... I thought it was torn down by the B-Ball Removal Department ages ago!"

Chamberlain shook his head. "That's what we wanted everyone to think. But it wasn't destroyed, it was merely... moved."

Nash felt rage begin to well up inside him. He clenched a fist and pushed the anger back down. "This was once great place created in the memory of the creator of B-Ball, James Naismith. And now it's been perverted by BLOODMOSES." His voice dropped. "Now I really want them to pay."

"We've reached the end of our journey, Stephen," Meadowlark said. "You'll get your chance."

"But we can't just waltz on in there, man." Marques added. "They'd be on us in seconds. We wouldn't have a chance."

Chamberlain started climbing down the steep incline of the inner crater. "That's where I come in. I know a few tricks. After all..." He pulled out a silver key card and flashed them a smile. "...I used to work here."

. . .

Kareem Abdul-Jabbar watched with unblinking eyes as five tiny shapes shambled closer to the front of the building. They were wearing matching jerseys. B-Ball jerseys. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar stood up from behind the rocky outcropping that he had previously been concealed behind.

Locate. Follow. Intercept. Destroy. Those were his orders.

They would not enter the building. They would not interfere with the master plan.

Kareem Abdul-Jabbar bent down and picked up a B-Ball.

It was non-regulation. But that was the point.

. . .

Four of them watched with waning confidence as Wilt "The Stilt" Chamberlain swiped the silver key-card through the backdoor's scanner for the umpteenth time.

"It doesn't look like that will work, dog." Marques said. Curly grunted frustratedly through a mouthful of onion rings.

"I don't get it!" Chamberlain threw the card down onto the ashy earth in defeat. "He must have changed the locks!"

"Who this 'he' you keep referring to?" Nash inquired.

"'He's the head honcho of henchmen. The bossman of BLOODMOSES. The kahuna or conspiracy. 'He's' 'The Man'." Chamberlain replied.

"But who is this 'The Man' of which you speak?" Meadowlark asked.

"No one knows his real identity. Only a select few have ever even seen his face." Chamberlain said. He leaned dejectedly against the back wall of the Hall of Fame. "But one thing I do know is that he is a stone-cold psychopath of the genius variety, which makes him even more dangerous. He feels only two emotions, hate and fury. And he never met a Baller he'd didn't kill." Chamberlain paused. "In fact, I'm surprised that all of us here are still breathing at this point."

Nash mustered a faint smile. "We're pretty tough. I think we can handle this mysterious 'Man' character. After all, we've already overcome such-"

"EVERYONE GET DOWN!" Meadowlark bellowed as a B-Ball suddenly ricocheted off the back wall. It spun so fast its brand was unreadable, and a trail of fire streamed behind it. They threw themselves to the ground, except for Nash, who bolted across the rocky turf. The B-Ball didn't even touch the ground, it just flew after him, getting closer and closer.

Nash ran, and he could feel the heat grow stronger as the B-Ball grew closer and closer to overtaking him. He zigzagged left and right, but by some mysterious force, the B-Ball followed right behind.

Nash did a 180, ducked under the oncoming B-Ball, and sprinted back to where his friends lay huddled. "I... I can't shake it!" He yelled.

And then Meadowlark sprang from the ground. He leapt up with insane speed, landing right between Nash and the B-Ball missile. He took a defensive stance and prepared for impact.

With a gut-churning WHUMPH the ball slammed into Meadowlark's chest at a sickening speed. It carried the Baller four feet backwards in the air and forced him to land hard on the stony ground.

The B-Ball continued spinning through the air, made an arc, and was caught by two hands.

The two hands of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

"He's using an illegal ball!" Chamberlain muttered as he gathered his wits. "That's a Wilson-X. It's heatseeking. It never misses."

"Clispaeth!" Marques said as he knelt by the crumpled Meadowlark. "Are you alright, dog?"

"I'll-I'll be okay." rasped an Meadowlark. "Deal with the threat for now."

Nash stared angrily at Kareem. "You! I thought you were dead! We were going to... to visit your tomb at one point!"

Kareem stared back silently.

"He was dead." Chamberlain said. "Dear Clispaeth, this means the KA-J project... is finished."

"Huh?" Marques looked up at Chamberlain. "Kareem... or whoever... has something to do with the KA-J project?"

Kareem Abdul-Jabbar gripped the B-Ball in his right hand. He wound up for another throw.

"I'll tell you later." Chamberlain said, "But for now we have to avoid getting utterly slammed and jammed."

Kareem stepped toward them. Nash and co. backed away until their backs were pushed up against the wall. Curly dropped his bag of onion rings and they splattered to bits on the rocky floor.

"You know," Nash said. "What the most frustrating thing about dying right here would be?"

"What?" asked Marques.

"I'll never get to hear the punch line of that joke." Nash laughed to himself sadly. "Why did the Baller cross the court?"

Kareem's arm jerked back. His eyes focused blankly on Nash. Then he brought his arm forward to release the ball. Nash closed his eyes. This was it. He was gonna die.

No more B-Ball. No more anything. At least he could finally see his wife...

CRACK!

Nash opened his eyes to see Kareem Abdul-Jabbar topple forward onto the ground. The B-Ball bounced harmlessly out of his hands and rolled to a stop at Nash's feet.

"To get to the other bench."

Goose the hobo flashed a toothy grin through his black beard and stepped over Kareem's sprawled body. He dropped the lead pipe he was holding, and extended a friendly hand.

"Goose!" Nash said surprised as he shook the hairy palm. "What in Clispaeth's name are you doing here?"

The hunched hobo kicked Kareem's body to make sure he wasn't conscious. Then he stood up.

As he decreased his stoop and straightened his back his whole figure began to change.. His hunch slowly disappeared. His legs seemed to grow longer and longer. His arm span doubled in length.

"Please," Goose said as the B-Ballers all looked at him in shock. "Call me Reece. Reece Tatum."

. . .

With one swipe of the gold keycard they found in one of Kareem's pockets, they were inside the base. Reece Tatum, formerly the hobo named Goose, led them down a long white hallway.

"Goose..." Meadowlark said ponderously. "Of course! That was you nickname when we played together all those years ago."

"And I'd adopted it as my alias during the B-Ball purge, hoping it would keep me safe." Reece Tatum said. "But all it did was allow me to watch helplessly as my comrades were rounded up and exterminated."

"You were working for me as a consultant as I hid in Cesspool X." Meadowlark said. "And I never even thought that you might be-"

"I changed my appearance, my personality, my voice. All to stay hidden." Reece Tatum said. He turned around and looked Chamberlain in the eyes. "But I ended up being captured for different reasons."

Chamberlain looked away in shame. "I know I can't expect you to forgive me when I can't even begin to forgive myself." He said. "But I'm trying to set things right. I'm going to help you destroy BLOODMOSES."

"I can see it in your eyes. You have changed. And we will need your help if we are to have the five remaining Globetrotters stop BLOODMOSES." Tatum responded. "So I will trust you."

"How...how did you manage to escape, dude?" Haynes asked.

"After Chamberlain left, I feigned being dead. The guards came in to check on me, and wham, slam, thank you ma'am, I took 'em out." Tatum grinned.

Meadowlark nodded. "Of course. Faking your own death. You've used that time and time again as both a practical joke and a survival technique. Why it's even helped you win a few B-Ball games too."

As they rounded a few more corners, Chamberlain stepped forward. "I see where you're taking us, Reece. To the K-AJ processing chamber. You know this base almost as well as I do, it seems."

"I spent a fair amount of time hiding from guards and avoiding cameras." Tatum said as they stopped in front of a door. "But what I found in this room trumped everything I had seen before hand. If we want to stop BLOODMOSES, we have to first deal with the threat behind this door." He pushed it open.

Nash and co. followed him inside, and what they saw nearly slam dunked their minds right out of their heads.

"What in Clispaeth's name?" Nash stuttered.

There were tanks. Six to be exact. And five of them were filled with a green, transparent liquid. And in the liquid of each cylindrical tank floated a naked Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

"It's like the one that we encountered outside..." Meadowlark said. "But... more of them..."

"This is project KA-J." Chamberlain said grimly. "Or should I say... Project Kareem Abdul-Jabbar."

"They've...they've been cloning him?" Nash asked, horrified.

"Yes." Tatum said. "I believe they plan to make an army of Kareem Abdul-Jabbars. You've seen how powerful one is. Now imagine that times ten. Or a hundred. Or a million..."

"You no doubt heard how Kareem's tomb was raided but a few months ago." Chamberlain explained. "That was us. That was BLOODMOSES. We stole the remains of this great man and used what DNA we could to construct artificial copies."

"Kareem Abdul-Jabbar." Meadowlark said. "The second-highest scorer of all B-Ball time. He's a beast. Baller, actor, pilot... no wonder they chose him as a candidate."

"But there's no way the Kareem I used to know would ever stoop to fighting mindlessly for BLOODMOSES!" Marques Haynes protested. "No one with a soul could do what we saw him do."

"Exactly. No one with a soul." Chamberlain crossed the room and tapped on a smaller, transparent cylinder. This one had hoses connecting it to every tank, and a strange red substance was pumping from it into the body of each Kareem clone. "Recognize this?"

"That's the stuff Cuchulainn was made of!" said Marques.

"Correct." Chamberlain continued. "When used in small amounts, it drains your soul, but does not kill you. That's how we were able to turn them from all-around all-stars into mindless killing machines."

Nash collapsed to his knees. "It's useless..." He raised a fist and brought it down hard onto the floor. "We can't handle all of these kareem clones. BLOODMOSES is always a few steps ahead of us, and we always fall short."

Meadowlark slowly walked over to Nash. He helped him off the floor. "Listen to yourself, you jive turkey!" He shook Nash by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. "We've come too far to just give up. We gathered the five retired numbers. We avoided monsters and psychos and brainwashed sports players. We fought through it all and we're still standing. That has to be worth something!"

"You're right..." Nash brushed himself off and looked around him at the faces of the people he had brought together. They all looked at him expectantly. "Okay. On the count of three, we'll channel all of our collective B-Ball energy into these abominations. Maybe just maybe it will be enough to-"

And then the floor dropped out from underneath them.

. . .

The Nash felt his stomach jump into his throat the the entire floor plummeted down some sort of elevator shaft. The smooth, blank walls shot up past them until the ceiling they had previously been under faded into a speck and disappeared.

"Is everybody okay?" Marques Haynes asked.

"Yeah, I think we're fine." Despite saying this, Chamberlain looked very worried. "I don't recall this room ever having a function like this..."

And as he said that, the shaft opened up into a bigger room. A huge room. A mammoth room. The Ballers could only stare in disbelief.

"It's gotta be... it's gotta be the size of twenty B-Ball courts!" Reece Tatum uttered in disbelief.

"More like two hundred B-Ball courts!" Nash said in awe. As the platform continued to descend toward a hypothetical floor he squinted into the distant blackness. He couldn't even see the walls. But soon small green dots began to appear all around them, surrounding every inch of the floor of the giant room they were dropping into.

"What are those things?" mumbled a confused Marques Haynes.

"They're.. they're growth tanks. All of them." Chamberlain looked in horrified wonder as the hundreds of green dots slowly turned into thousands of green cylinders. In each cylinder floated a dormant Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Fields and fields of Kareem Abdul-Jabbars. As far as the eye could see.

"What in Clispaeth's holy, holy name..." Meadolark crossed himself.

"It can't be... we were wrong. We were very wrong. There are more than just a few dozen Kareems... there are enough KA-Js to fill up a whole NBA league by itself. No. Multiple NBA leagues!" Nash felt his hopes dissolve as he witnessed the horizon of clones. Slowly the platform reached the bottom of the room and ground to a halt. "This is just... this is insane..."

"I prefer the term 'differently geniused'." A voice echoed from behind a now visible plush-leather chair.

The Ballers stood frozen as the chair began to rotate slowly around.

"'The Man'... it has to be." Tatum said.

As the chair continued to pivot, the voice continued. It was a very familiar voice, but Nash couldn't quite place it.

"That's right." It was saying. "I am indeed 'The Man'. Genius mastermind behind BLOODMOSES and all of it's nefarious subsidiaries. But you can call me-"

Nash looked on in terrified surprise as the man in chair fully faced them. "Doctor James."

"No...no it can't be." Meadowlark took a step back. "No. No. You died. I SAW you die. You fell from the top of the ferris wheel. No person could survive that."

"But I'm not really a person, am I?' Doctor James' previously handsome face twisted into a smarmy grin. "Take a good look at me. It should be obvious at this point."

Nash stared into the doctor's horrible, mangled face. "You've got...you've got metal sticking out of your head. And parts of it are blinking... and pulsating..."

"Yes, my head was severely damaged from the unfortunate fall I took on Liberty Island. And now bits of the real me seem to be protruding. It's quite a nuisance, but at this point I really don't care about looking good."

"You're-you're a robot, dude!" Marques said. "A freaky-humanoid robot!"

"No wonder you survived." Meadowlark said. "You couldn't die. Because you were never really alive."

"I was alive at one point." The doctor smiled and Nash could see half of his teeth were gone, replaced by metal spikes. "Right up until November 28th, 1939."

"November 28th, 1939..." Reece Tatum gasped. "But that's when the original creator of B-Ball, First Lord of the Court, Doctor James Naismith died." His eyes widened in icy realization. "But that would make you-"

The cyborg grinned and nodded. One of it's eyeballs fell out, revealing a flickering bulb. "That's right. I'm not just Doctor James. I'm Doctor James Naismith. Or rather, I'm a collection of his memories."

"WHA?" The Ballers said in unison.

"The original Doctor James Naismith died when everybody thought he did. But because he was so influential to B-Ball, which in turn was essential to our daily lives, his memories were programmed into a robot body. That would be me."

"But Doctor Naismith was a great man!" Nash said. "He'd never try to take over and subjugate all of mankind!"

Cyborg Naismith scowled. "The doctor was weak! He created a game, sure, but that's all! People changed the game, they changed the rules. They were in control, B-Ball gave them that control, that freedom to control their own lives. I'm going to do one better. I'm going to get rid of B-Ball and thus create a world where everyone is under my dominion!"

"You can't destroy B-Ball, Naismith." Meadowlark said. "You can destroy B-Balls, but we will find other ways to play. After all, anything can be a B-Ball. You can destroy the courts, but we'll play on gravel, or dirt, or plasticine if we have to. And you can destroy us, but all it takes to be a true Baller is having a love for the Game. Your plan will never succeed."

"Oh, I realize how ingrained B-Ball is in this world of ours. It took me a while to figure it out, sure, but eventually I realized how I could fully achieve my goals. See, I'm not going to destroy B-Ball, I'm going to corrupt it."

"What are you talking about?" Tatum interjected.

"Kareem Abdul-Jabbar." Naismith gestured to a nearby floating KA-J. "A B-Ball legend. He practically IS B-Ball. And so I cloned him. And I took control of him, and his image. That's the key. The image of B-Ball. When the world sees what terrible and horrendous atrocities all of these psuedo-Ballers are going to commit, they will lose their faith in B-Ball. They will see that B-Ball is a hateful and poisonous thing. And when they give up on B-Ball, I will take full control."

"Let's get him," Chamberlain snarled as he took a step forward. "It's six to one. We can stop BLOODMOSES right here, right now."

"I don't think so, Chamberlain. You used to work for me, but don't expect any mercy." The android snapped his fingers. Five Kareem clones instantly jerked awake. The glass of their tubes shattered as they punched their way out, snapping the nutrient tubes as they broke free of their prisons. Slimy green liquid poured all over the floor as they marched out, still naked, towards the Ballers.

"How did you do that?" Nash asked. "Can you just command them with your mind?"

"Did I mention my head has built in supercomputer?" Evil Naismith laughed. "I can control everything, see everything, and do everything, all within the comfort of my own mind. It's one of advantages of losing one's life. And now you're going to learn what that's like." He pointed a made at Nash, mimed a gun, and fired a pretend bullet right at his head.

The KA-J's lunged toward the Ballers.

_This is it, _thought Nash_. This is the end. There's no way out this time. It's just too bad. I really wanted to have one more B-Ball game before I died. Just one more game. One more game..._

"Wait!" Nash yelled as a KA-J fist arced toward his face ready to smash it to a bloody pulp. "I... I Challenge. I Challenge You."

"What?" the robot Naismith looked angry and confused, and the KA-Js stopped their assault. "You can't-"

"By the power of the B-Ball code, I challenge you to a B-Ball game." Nash said. "You more than anyone should know the B-Ball code states that anyone challenged to a B-Ball game must accept. You have to play us in a game of B-Ball. Your own processing cannot deny this."

"NO, NO, NO!" Naismith shrieked with a noise that sounded like gears being smashed together.

"He's right, dogg." Marques Haynes nodded. "You have to play us in at least one game of B-Ball. It's in the rules."

Cyborg James Naismith continued to shriek. He grabbed his head and began to shake.

"If you go against this rule, you will destroy yourself. It's probably hardwired directly into your core processing." Meadowlark said.

"FINE. Fine. fine." Naismith stopped shaking. He looked at Nash with a glare of pure hatred. "One game. Five of my Kareems versus five of you. But the results are inevitable. One way or another you will be eliminated."

He spun his chair around and pressed a button on a console. The platform the Ballers were standing on began to rise again. "Practice court B. Half an hour. Don't make me wait."

. . .

The 5 remaining Harlem Globetrotters stretched out on the impeccably polished hardwood. Nash watched them from the bench.

"That was some quick thinking there, Stevie." Haynes said. "A B-Ball challenge. We may have a chance, be it a slim one, to destroy BLOODMOSES using what we do best. B-Ball."

Nash nodded. The five retired numbers. The five greatest Harlem Globetrotters. All of the best B-Ball on Earth was concentrated on this court right now. But was it enough to beat Kareem Abdul Jabbar? Times five?

On the other side of the court, Naismith was giving his team of clones a lecture.

"Hit them where it hurts. Break them down. Destroy them utterly. You can crush these guys easily. This is what you were made for."

The five Kareems all nodded slowly in perfect unison.

The ref, a randomly chosen unit from the BLOODMOSES Gamma Team, stepped onto the court. He nodded to both teams, indicating that it was time to start.

The teams lined up opposite each other. Meadowlark, team captain, stepped forward to participate in the jump ball. A Kareem stepped up opposite him. Meadowlark stared into the face of his former friend. The Kareem stared blankly back, his glassy eyes looking at nothing at all.

The ref blew the whistle, and the ball spun through the air...

Meadowlark rose off the ground and snatched the ball from the air, flicking it back to Tatum, who passed it over to Wilt "The Stilt" Chamberlain, who dribbled around an attacking Kareem before going for a shot.

It ricocheted off the rim, but was caught in mid-air by a waiting Meadowlark, who slammed it in for two.

"That was easy, man. We got this." Marques said as the ref passed the one of the Kareems the ball.

"I have a feeling they're just warming up." Meadowlark said.

The Kareem passed the ball in, and within seconds another Kareem had it, and was pounding his way down the court towards the basket. Only Curly stood in his way...

The Kareem jumped in the air, stepped on Curly's chest, and jammed the ball in. Curly lay sprawled on the floor.

"Foul, ref! Foul!" Tatum shouted angrily. The ref just shrugged his shoulders.

The Globetrotters had the ball again. Marques managed a three pointer, but took an elbow to the face in the process. Still the ref didn't call anything.

Back and forth, the teams played, alternating points. Meadowlark scored most of his team's points, but he was getting visibly weaker as the first quarter dragged on. The Kareems played in perfect unison, as if they were all one person...

"They're insanely consistent." whispered Chamberlain. "They played just as hard as us and they haven't even broken a sweat yet."

They were down by one, with ten seconds left on the clock until the end of the quarter. Meadowlark had the ball. He dribbled around a Kareem, ducked underneath the arm of another, spun around a third opponent, and leaped for a dunk.

A defending Kareem slammed his fist upwards as Meadowlark floated toward the beckoning hoop. It caught the Globetrotter right in the stomach. Meadowlark grunted in pain as he took the hit, but with one hand, he managed to jam the B-Ball in for a point.

The buzzer for the end of the first quarter went. The score was 31-30 for the Globetrotters. They were ahead.

Nash rushed onto the court to meet his friends as they gathered together. "We're doing it guys! We're actually going to win-" He stopped mid-sentence when he saw that they were gathered around a kneeling Meadowlark.

Meadowlark was coughing and wheezing. Nash's smile turned to a concerned frown as Meadowlark began hacking up blood onto the surface of the court.

"What's happened to him?" Nash asked.

"It's his stomach injury from before when we were attacked outside the base." Tatum said. "The punch he just took must have aggravated it. It looks like he's bleeding internally."

"It'll pass! I can still play!" Meadowlark said forcefully. But he fell onto the court and clutched at his abdomen as he said this.

"He has to play! We need all five Globetrotters!" Nash said. "It's the only way we can defeat those monsters. The entire world depends on you guys."

"Look at him, man. He's in no shape to play. He couldn't even handle a pick-up game in the shape he's in." Marques Haynes said. "He's gotta sit it out."

"No! I have to play!" Meadowlark said angrily. "I've come too far! I'm still in the game!"

"You'll get yourself killed!" Chamberlain responded sternly.

"The second quarter will start in less than a minute." The ref shouted to them.

"We've got to find a fifth player or we'll be disqualified." Meadowlark said weakly. He looked up the sole white man among them. "Well, Nash, do you think you have what it takes to be a Globetrotter?"

Nash looked confused. "What? Me? Go into the game as team captain? But I'm not even an retired number! Without the five retired numbers we can't hope to-"

"It's not about the stupid numbers!" Rasped the collapsed Meadowlark. "It was never about the numbers, or even the Harlem Globetrotters. It was about gettin' B-Ball back. And you have proven time and time again that you have what it takes to bring B-Ball back. It's supposed to be you, Nash. It was always supposed to be you."

Nash looked around him at the faces of the other Ballers. They looked tired, and beat-up, and at the edge of losing all hope. They needed a leader.

"Then I guess I have no choice." He looked over at the other team. The five Kareems all stood in a straight line, just staring at them.

"Nash, we believe in you." Said Curly in a rare moment of verbosity.

"The time for words is over." Nash said. "It's time to Shut Up and Jam."

. . .

It took a while for Nash to get used to the feel of a real court again, and to figure out the strengths and weaknesses of each of his teammates, but slowly it all started to rematerialize in his mind.

With each point they scored, he regained a little bit of his former self. And with that ceame confidence. Soon they were slamming, jamming, shooting, and generally alley-ooping like the pros that they were. The New Harlem Globetrotters were playing like a finely tuned machine.

Meadowlark watched them ball as he lay slumped on a bleacher. Every breath brought pain and agony, but watching his brothers make a break or a swish put a smile on his face.

By the end of the first half, Nash's team was up 62-51.

The Kareems were thrown off balance by the change in captain and the resulting change in strategy. A furious pep-talk from Doctor Naismith at half time did little to improv their performance. And by the end of the third quarter the New Harlem Globetrotters had comfortable forty-two point lead, as the scoreboard read 97-55.

James Naismith was getting more and more livid as he saw his team of freakish clones get repeatedly out maneuvered and out scored. His eyes blinked red and began to flash.

"Don't get too cocky, Nash." A nearly passed-out Meadowlark counseled him before the start of the final quarter. "We are ahead, but they've got to have at least one more trick up their sleeve."

"Don't worry, Meadowlark, we got this. Once you figure out the defensive weak spots of one Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, you figure out the weakness in all of them." Nash responded confidently. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get some water before we trounce these squares." He jogged down the bleachers and exited the court.

There was a water fountain just outside of the gym, and as Nash bent down to take a drink of the sweet, crystalline fluid, he thought to himself, _This is it. We're actually doing it. We're proving that we have what it takes to bring down BLOODMOSES..._

But then the sleeping agent in the water slowly overpowered him, and Nash felt consciousness slip away from him like a botched pass...

. . .

"Well, unless you can find a fifth player, you're going to have to forfeit this game." the referee told the four remaining Ballers.

"But Nash was just here a second ago!" Marques said in frustration. "He couldn't just have abandoned us."

"Nash wouldn't do that." Tatum cut in. "I suspect foul play. In any case, all we have to do is protect our lead."

"But we still need another player." Chamberlain said.

The now barely audible voice of Meadowlark somehow found its way into the conversation. "Put me back in."

"But you're in no shape to-" Chamberlain responded.

"You said it yourself, all we have to do is protect the lead. I won't even do anything. As long as I'm on the court, I count as a player. I'll just...I'll just have to manage. It's only 15 more minutes."

"Are you going to put him in or not?" The referee asked.

Reece "Goose" Tatum looked at his former master. "I've worked for you under the guise of a homeless man for many years. I know how stubborn you can be. It's clear you've made up your mind. We'll put you back in."

The fourth quarter started innocently enough, with Curly winning the jump ball and passing it to Haynes, but with only four active players instead of five, they quickly lost possession.

The Kareem who had intercepted the ball stopped moving. He crouched and just stayed still. The Old New Harlem Globetrotters looked at him in confusion.

Then the floor began to vibrate rapidly. The boards underneath the Kareem began to grow warm. Steam began to rise from around the clone.

"I've got a bad feeling about this..." Whispered Meadowlark as he lay with his back against his basketball post.

The Globetrotters couldn't believe their eyes, as the Kareem's skin began to smoke. Then he caught fire. Flames crackled all over their opponents' side of the court. And then the Kareem leapt.

"He's on fire!" Gasped Marques Haynes.

The fire ball that was perviously Kareem Abdul-Jabbar soared through the air toward their basket. But they could only watch in disbelief as the blazing Baller slammed the B-Ball home.

And the moment the point was scored, there was a scouring blast of heat, and a loud POP!, and everything went white.

. . .

A loud noise prompted Nash to awake to blackness. He realized shortly that this was because a blindfold was securely fastened around his face. He tried to remove it, but then he realized that his harms were securely tied to his body by ropes.

"What happened?" Nash asked to anyone who could be listening.

The smooth, evil voice of Doctor James Naismith answered him. "You made a critical defensive error. You let your guard down."

Nash felt a gust of wind stir through his hair. "We're... we're outside? I'm missing the game!"

"Yes, your team was doing quite phenomenal. That's why I had to forcibly remove you from the equation."

"What was that loud noise?" Nash said. "And why is the ground shaking?"

"That was no doubt one of my Kareems executing the Phoenix Maneuver. It's a very powerful fiery B-Ball play that destroys all in its path."

"You're going to kill me, aren't you."

"Of course. But first I'm going to watch the fireworks. See, the Phoenix Maneuver has enough heat to restart a dormant volcano... much like the very crater my base is located in."

Nash could feel the ground heating up as he spoke. Bit of the land around them was falling away to reveal deep chasms. And at the very bottom of the growing, cracking pits, was lava...

Naismith laughed gleefully as huge jets of steam began to erupt from random fissures in the ground. "I can just imagine how much fun your friends are having inside..."

. . .

Maybe it was the rapidly increasing temperature of the room, or the fact that they had been playing a whole game of B-Ball with no subs, but the fatigue was finally catching up the Globetrotters. They were missing their two pointers, airballing their three pointers, and their defense was sloppier than Curly's eating habits.

The Kareems were using their 5 on 4 advantage and were racking up point after point. There was little they could do but watch as the score changed from 97-52 to 97-96.

"We're losing!" Shouted an exhausted, sweaty Haynes. "We can't play in this heat. And it looks like the clones aren't even bothered by it." Behind him, Curly was passed out on the baseline.

"We've only got twenty seconds left." Tatum said. "If we can hold them off for just a few more seconds..." But as he said this, a Kareem rammed into him, knocking the ball free. Chamberlain scrambled for it but it was too late, another Kareem had picked up the ball. He slammed it in for two more.

98-97 for the KA-Js.

"It's over." Lamented Marques. "We need Nash."

"Well, we don't have Nash." Chamberlain grimaced. He passed the ball in to Tatum, who dribbled in for a shot with 13 seconds left. It was easily batted down by a Kareem who dribbled back down toward their end.

"No!" Meadowlark had struggled to his feet and was blocking the KA-J's path. "You're not going to score any more...over...my...dead...body."

The Kareem careened right into him. Meadowlark flew backwards and his back slammed against the post.

"AAUGH!" He shouted as the Kareem dunked for another two.

100-97. Not even a three pointer could save them now.

. . .

"AAUGH!"

Nash snapped out of his fog of despair as Meadowlark's cry echoed throughout the crater.

"Oh dear." Said Doctor Naismith, checking the score on a screen wired into his forearm. "It's 100-97, with 10 seconds left. Even if you manage to tie it, special home court rules say that my team will win. It looks like your team is dead. Some of the players quite literally."

Nash felt all the pent up anger and frustration begin to seethe through his body. "If you hadn't blindfolded and tied me up, you coward, I would-"

"But you are clearly incapacitated. Your team is getting crushed, and there's nothing you can do about it. Oh Nash, in the end, it seems you never really did have what it takes."

_Don't let your anger get the best of you. You've got a game to win_. Nash's mind began to work rapidly. They were down by 3 points. But that would mean he'd have to-

-and he didn't even have a B-Ball...

_Anything can be a B-Ball. _Meadowlark's earlier words rang in his head. _Anything._

"As soon as my clones defeat you, I'll ice your teammates, and you. Or maybe I'll take some of your DNA first, and create some more clones. A couple more Meadowlarks here, a few Reece Tatums there..."

"No. You won't." Nash said as he began to loosen one of his hands from the ropes that bound him. "I've spent most of my life sitting on the sidelines, too unsure of myself to do anything about anything. But there's if there's one thing I've learned over the course of my journey it's that it doesn't matter if you're on the sidelines. It doesn't even matter if your in the Game. What matters is that the Game is in you."

Nash gave one last tug and his right arm came untangled from the ropes. His limb snapped forward, grabbing Naismith by his synthetic hair. He gripped tightly. And pulled.

Dr. Naismith's blinking vision orbs bulged out of his eyes sockets as his cybernetic head strained to remain on his body. His mouth opened and closed in a shriek as his head popped clean off his robotic torso.

Nash held the robotic skull in his hands. The ground began to crumble away on all sides, leaving Nash and the headless body of Doctor James Naismith clinging to a lone pillar of ashy rock in the center of a spreading pool of magma.

Down by three points. Nash was blindfolded and had one hand still bound to his back.

More than 28 meters away. Eyes closed, one hand tied behind his back. All the requirements for The Four Pointer.

Nash looked through his blindfold into the rapidly flashing eyes of the doctor. "Game over."

With one mighty fling, Nash sent the head rocketing into the sky. It rose higher an higher until it disappeared into the atmosphere...

. . .

The red mist could feel something coming. Something brimming with energy. Something that it could feed on for years. Cuchulainn ceased its brooding and drifted through its many tunnels until it was near the top of its temple.

It could sense that whatever it was was getting closer at an alarming rate. If it the red cloud didn't hurry it would miss it.

But by the time it burst out into the open jungle air at the pinnacle of the tomb, it could see the tiny, round object rocketing off in the other direction.

Cuchulainn gave out a foggy sigh and sulked off back toward the cold, clammy central chamber.

. . .

"Woah!" The sweaty, undershirt-and-hardhat wearing man said as he watched the sky. "Hey Tyrone, did you see that?"

Tyrone sat in a comfortable chair surrounded by levers. He too was staring at the red streak that the flying object had left as it seared through the sky. "Yeah, I saw that. What the hell do you think it was?"

Their foreman was not as interested. "Get back to work. We don't pay you to sit on your fat, lazy asses all day."

Tyrone muttered some obscenities under his breath. He pushed one of the levers forward.

The giant wrecking ball swung into the side of the giant glittering ferris wheel, which promptly collapsed into a million shimmering fragments.

. . .

"And then I said to Elmira, I said, 'Don't you think Johnny would be doin' better in school if-" Sheryl Swoopes stopped mid sentence as a flaming orb ripped through the sky with seemingly infinite ferocity.

An old friend of hers continued to rock in one of the rocking chairs seated on Sheryl's recently constructed front porch. It was made entirely out of wooden bats. "What in Clispaeth's name?" Her friend whispered.

They were brought out of their trance as the sound of a whistling teaball rang from the kitchen.

. . .

"!"

The head of Doctor James Naismith shrieked as it rose up into the inky blackness of space.

The synthetic skin had mostly burned off, revealing a stark, polished, metal skull. It grinned helplessly as it screamed.

And then it slammed into the side of a floating space craft, which sent the cranium plummeting back toward earth.

Inside the space craft, a teenager woke up. "Hey, hey Cyberdwarf." He said groggily as he gave his friend a nudge. "Did you hear that? It sounded like someone screaming."

The other person shifted his position in his tiny sleeping bag and said sleepily. "It was probably just your imagination. Go back to sleep Hoopz."

Hoopz Barkley shrugged and closed his eyes again.

. . .

Meadowlark was struggling to hold on to consciousness as he sat with his back against his team's pole. He could just barely make out the figures of his teammates as they stood stooped over in exhaustion and watched the scoreboard in hopeless defeat.

10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...

And then the glass domed ceiling shattered as the fiery orb plummeted downwards. The half-melted mouth of Naismith's skull continued it's ear-piercing shriek as it flew straight for the basket.

2...

It went through the basket.

1...

And the buzzer sounded.

The orb hit the wood of the court's surface, which promptly exploded into a million wooden shards.

Meadowlark looked through a haze of excruciating pain at the scoreboard, which read: Harlem Globetrotters: 101. The BLOODMOSES Kareem Abdul-Jabbars: 100.

Around him his teammates began to whoop and dance in celebration as they also came to realize the outcome of the game.

"We did it. Nash, we did it. We won." Meadowlark whispered as he closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the pole.

And as the shards of glass continued to rain gently down upon them, Meadowlark basked in their incredible victory. He smiled. And then he died.

. . .

The charred, wailing head of Dr. James Naismith continued its journey, burrowing its way downward through the countless subterranean levels of the BLOODMOSES base. It continued smashing past layer after layer of concrete, and then iron, and then reinforced steel.

And then it busted through the ceiling of the giant cloning cavern.

The thousands upon thousands of pods holding waiting Kareem Abdul-Jabbars rose up to meet it. And so did the main control console, which the screaming skull permanently deactivated with one final, mighty impact.

The control panel sparked, and the lights on it died. The thermal control units ceased to function, allowing the cool rock walls and rock surface of the chamber to quickly dissolve into smolderingly hot lava, much like what was already happening outside.

The lava rose, carrying with it thousands of now-useless corpses of Kareem Abdul-Jabbars. Bodies went flying this way and that as the lava pushed haphazardly up towards the surface by any means necessary...

. . .

As Nash clung desperately to his tiny rock island surrounded by deadly magma, he felt the ground begin to shake. It seemed the crater was ready for an inevitable full-scale eruption.

The flailing, headless body of robo Naismith tumbled off the ledge next to him and hit the fiery bottom of the crevasse. It melted instantly. It seemed the crater was ready for an inevitable full-scale eruption.

Steve Nash squinted through the ash and saw four figures running towards him across the steaming surface of the crater, away from the evil Basketball Hall-of-Fame.

And then he watched as the Hall-of-Fame was lifted clean off its foundation as a surge of clones burst their way out of the ground underneath it.

Nash huddled in attempted safety as the bodies of the Kareem clones began to fall back toward the ground. It was raining men.

Hundreds of bodies fell. They landed in the lava, and then more landed on those, and then more landed on top of those...

The tremors seemed to have slowed, so Nash peered over the edge of the chasm that surrounded him. It was becoming clear what was happening. The potential volcano that was the BLOODMOSES crater was being clogged. Clogged by a legion of clones.

When the Kareems had stopped falling, and the shaking had ceased completely, Nash carefully picked his way across the chasm on the bridge of bodies. He met his team on the other side.

"We did it!" Marques Haynes rushed forward and embraced Nash in a hug. "We beat BLOODMOSES. And permanently, by the looks of things."

"It was incredible." Chamberlain said. "We were gonna lose, and then out of nowhere came this sort of meteorite and it slammed through the other team's hoop-"

"I know." was all Nash said. He looked around sadly. "I don't see Meadowlark."

"I'm sorry, Steve." Tatum looked down. "He...he didn't make it."

"But he died doing what he loved." Marques said solemnly. "Slammin' and jammin'. I think... I think he was happy."

And as the five Ballers came to terms with what had happened and what their victory meant, the residual smoke of the now re-dormant volcano rose into the air.

And if you looked at it a certain way, it sorta looked like a smiling B-Ball.


	8. Epilogue: Overtime

Epilogue: Overtime

Warning: This Story is Canon

The B-Ball gods were gathered around their large central table that sat in the middle of the pantheon of the Game.

The table was shaped like a miniature B-Ball court, complete with miniature hoops, miniature lines, and miniature hand-crafted players.

On one side of the tiny court stood five figurines. If you looked at them closely you could see a few similarities to a certain group of rag-tag retired Ballers. A sixth figurine lay knocked over on its side. On the other end of the court lay five small, identical figurines and one large one. The large one looked like it had been decapitated.

Though the B-Ball gods sat all along the sides, only two sat on each end of the table court. They stared at each other, one struggling to control his simmering anger, and the other with the serene calm of one who had played countless games of tabletop B-Ball.

The god of Underdogs gently picked up the little figurine with the afro from his side of the table court. He carefully opened up a velvet-lined case on his lap and placed the small piece inside.

On the opposite end, with one frustrated movement of his arm, the god of Probability swept all of the pieces on his side off of the table. He took a deep breath and let his temper recede.

"Don't be angry because I won," the god of Underdogs said evenly. "Honestly, I do believe it could have gone either way. Especially right at the end."

The god of Probability grunted. "You're just saying that."

"No, I'm serious. I was getting a little bit worried when you surged ahead during the fourth quarter."

"Hah," the god of Probability scoffed. "That's what happens any time anybody plays against you. Don't act like you didn't know how it was going to end."

"Well, in any case, I guess that's another point for me." The god of Underdogs looked over at the god of Scorekeeping and nodded.

The god of Scorekeeping turned to the Blackboard of Infinity. He took out a piece of chalk and neatly made a single tick underneath the right-hand column. It was preceded by a towering amount of ticks that rose up into the heavens right out of sight. The god of Scorekeeping put the chalk back in his pocket and turned to face the table again.

"Hmph." The god of Probability grunted.

"Oh, get over it." The god of Underdogs said. "You'll win the next one."

They sat and stared at each other in silence for what may have been seconds, or for what may have just as easily been decades.

The god of Underdogs finally looked away from the god of Probability's downcast face. The god of Underdogs sighed.

"Alright. Fine."

The god of Probability perked up a little bit.

"Best out of three?"


End file.
